















Class 

Book 


^ y ~:S 





4 -< 2 ! 


-i r 


Copyright]^?- 


COPYRIGHT DEPOSm 





Father Bernard’s Parish 


i 




t 







1 ^' 

. \ 


i- ■ 


' ■ '■ ■ ' 

a • 


' ♦ , 

• • '--’j 


. 1 1 • i' 


: v'‘ 

: . . . 








c, 


» , i ■ 


I' I. 


'■'’.■'r '.I ■' ' 

■ • .'•> I • ■ ■ 

' } ^ ‘ ' 

v' . ' ' ■ ■ ■ 

y . 

' •• 

■ : . v" ■■ 




' { 


, ♦ 


t'y ■' 

V . 




' • / .1 ■ 






’ t ' 


... 'i.t’ 


v‘ 

f ' i *• ■ , . i * ■ 


. •• 


r-K ■• 

* 

. t ’.I, 


i>. 

r' \ . 


( j, 


I 


1 




I 


l 

t 


t 



t 


\ 


\ , 


* 




* 



i 






.T 


I 


f 


I 


t 


I 


s 


■ « 
I 

t 


« 

\ 

t 

J 


, f 




1 




\ 

t' 


H 


,* 

4 


. I 


V 


> 

) ■ 


I 



t 


I 



< 


♦ '• 

' , 1 


I 


• ,-j 


,> 


y 


I 






I 



I 


Father Bernard’s Parish 


By 

Florence Olmstead 

Author of “A Cloistered Romance” 


New York 

Charles Scribner’s Sons 
1916 




Copyright, 1916, by 
Charles Scribner’s Sons 

Published May, 1916 




MAY 25 1916 

©CI.A4;il200 


t 


D 





TO 


S. O. A. 

AND 

s. o. 



Father Bernard’s Parish 


CHAPTER I 

C OLUMBUS AVENUE, in the neighborhood 
of One Hundredth Street, is given over to 
small shops. They are wedged in beside each 
other in dreary sequence, broken only by the fruit 
and vegetable stalls that gladden the eye with 
color — plenty of it, fresh and varied. Marketers 
hurry up and down the street in the morning 
hours, children possess it at all times, playing 
‘‘hop-scotch” in and out among the shoppers, 
shrieking in their ears, or, perhaps, running into 
the unwary with small wagons of wonderful 
construction. The place is cluttered with their 
belongings. Industrious little girls embroider in 
groups before doors that open into dark hall- 
ways. Delivery-wagons are lined up along the 
curb. Sometimes a horse stands with his fore 
feet upon the pavement, soliciting the friendly 
notice which affectionate natures demand, and, 
here and there, a push-cart man or a knife-grinder 
takes his stand. Beyond these the moving ve- 
hicles pass — automobiles and trucks. In the 


1 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

centre the surface car clangs its course, while 
overhead runs the elevated road, adding an in- 
termittent din to the manifold and prevailing 
noises. Above the stores, on either side of the 
way, flat rises above flat — the homes of the small 
tradesmen and their smaller assistants. Each 
block or two forms a little community to itself 
and has its loves and jealousies, its envyings and 
friendships, with as unfailing certainty as do 
more pretentious circles of society. Perhaps 
these things are here even stronger and more 
developed, since human nature, like vegetation, 
flourishes best in virgin soil. 

In one of these numerous blocks, in a fourth- 
floor flat, lived Mrs. Halligan, with her son and 
daughter. She was wont to say with pride, 
am eleven years in this same place,’’ and she 
told many a tale to her gossip, Mrs. Zukerman, 
of “Zukerman’s Bakery and Lunch-Room” next 
door, of “how lovely the house used to be kep’, 
with carpets on the stair.” 

“It’s nothin’ to what it was, since this agent 
took charge. As long as he gets the rent, it’s 
little he cares for the tenants. But he don’t let 
in the Eyetalians, and that’s my reason for stayin’ 
on,” she declared. 

This was a delicate thrust, for Mrs. Zukerman, 
though giving herself airs on sundry points of 


2 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

house furnishing, yet shared the roof of her flat 
with the Espositos, fruit and vegetable venders, 
and the Roberto Nannici family, restaurant 
keepers. Mrs. Zukerman had no personal ob- 
jection to the Italians, but her friend’s contempt 
for them and their surroundings was trying, 
under the circumstances. She let the matter go 
now, however, for she had a piece of patronage 
to bestow which she felt sure would bring Mrs. 
Halligan to a more humble frame of mind. 

“Fm sorry to see you’re out of a place still 
already,” she said in a sympathetic tone. 

Mrs. Halligan was a cook of high endowments, 
but the summer exodus of the rich had left her 
temporarily out of work. She was not in the 
habit of discussing her trials, though, least of 
all with Mrs. Zukerman, and she tossed her head 
with much the same air that she must have had 
many years before when she was a rosy-faced 
colleen in the old country. 

‘‘What will I be wantin’ with a place?” she 
asked disdainfully. “I’ve a good-payin’ lodger 
in the young man from the delicatessen, and my 
second room is also bespoke.” 

“So it’s bespoke!” the other exclaimed with 
evident curiosity. 

“Yes, and by a gentleman who’s goin’ in busi- 
ness in the same block, two doors below.” 

3 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

'‘The laundry what was?’’ Mrs. Zukerman 
asked. “What business is he goin’ into?” 

“Oh, ’twill be a great surprise to ye, though 
I don’t know as I should speak of it as yet.” 

“It’s a secret, then ?” 

“I’m not sayin’ it is, but yer girl, Lena Schra- 
min, is good at overheatin’.” 

“Lena’s gone down-stairs for the coffee cakes,” 
Mrs. Zukerman assured her visitor. 

“In that case I may as well mention it,” said 
Mrs. Halligan. “I wouldn’t care for Lena to 
know about it, for she might be tellin’ her father 
somethin’ of the young man’s plans, and blockin’ 
his little game. It’s a butcher shop he’s goin’ to 
set up.” 

“You don’t say!” the other exclaimed, but 
was forced to break off for a moment as a cus- 
tomer came in for a pie. 

Mrs. Halligan remained looking over the as- 
sortment of bread upon the counter. 

“How will old Schramin take havin’ another 
butcher shop on the block already ?” Mrs. Zuker- 
man asked, resuming the conversation when the 
screen door had swung shut after the intruder. 

“It will maybe teach him to give more than 
three mutton chops to the pound,” Mrs. Halligan 
said with satisfaction. 

The subject was one upon which the two ladies 

4 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

were in perfect accord, so they talked for some 
time about Mr. Schramin, with his scant weights 
and tough meats. Then Mrs. Halligan said she 
‘^must be movin’,’’ and Mrs. Zukerman re- 
membered the patronage she had been about to 
offer. 

“A lady customer of mine, who keeps a board- 
in’-house in Ninety-Third Street, asks me yester- 
day to recommend a cook to come in for dinner,” 
she volunteered. 

“A boardin’-house is it } And how many does 
she set?” Mrs. Halligan was careful to display 
no very keen interest. 

‘‘That I can’t say. Will I send her up to see 
you if she comes in again?” 

“Well, since it’s just for the dinner, perhaps 
I’ll be thinkin’ of agreein’ to it,” said Mrs. Hal- 
ligan, to whom, after all, the prospect of making 
a little money in the dull season was not un- 
pleasing. She would have preferred, however, 
that the opportunity had not come through Mrs. 
Zukerman’s condescension, and she thought of 
it with some regret as she climbed the narrow 
stair to her flat. 

Her daughter Annie was at home, practising 
upon the cracked old piano which Mrs. Halligan, 
in the strength of maternal ambition, had bought 
and paid for by means of laborious weekly in- 
5 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

stallments. She had spent years at the stove in 
the furtherance of her daughter’s education, and 
she valued it accordingly, being never so con- 
tent as when she listened to the somewhat vigor- 
ous execution of the painstaking Annie. 

But more than ambition and love had gone to 
the achievement of Annie’s education. The girl 
was intended for the convent, and Mrs. Halligan 
had put religious zeal into this offering to the 
church. Annie was a gentle, sweet girl, and en- 
tered with unimaginative docility into her moth- 
er’s cherished plan. There was, indeed, resulting 
from her devoted youth, a pleasant exaltation of 
which she became more and more sensible as the 
years passed, and the consciousness of young 
maidenhood fell upon her soft Irish face. The 
feeling imparted a gentility to her manner which 
made her a person of note in the neighborhood. 

‘‘Annie is one pure white soul,” Mrs. Zuker- 
man often said, holding her as an example before 
the refractory Lena Schramin, the old butcher’s 
daughter, who assisted in the bakery. Lena, 
however, felt not the smallest desire to emulate 
the pious Annie, notwithstanding the respectful 
glances that followed the future sister of mercy 
when she walked abroad. 

Lena was fiery and dark, with eyes that had 
originated a glance of their own, most effective 
6 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

upon the masculine frequenters of the bakery and 
lunch-room. The girl was of Polish blood. It 
was a silent influence that told forcefully in her 
general make-up. She had a following, and Mrs. 
Zukerman, though enforcing strict propriety of 
conduct, was yet aware that the additions to the 
cash drawer during the lunch hour had percep- 
tibly increased since Lena’s advent. She often 
speculated, indeed, as to whether some of her 
neighbors knew how often their husbands dropped 
into her establishment for the noon meal. 

It was difficult to define Lena’s charm; she 
was, as often as not, in a black mood, permitting 
no pleasantries, and slamming down crockery in 
a manner that threatened its destruction. Then 
some word, perhaps, or, more often, some whim, 
would effect a change, and her face would lighten, 
with a sudden showing of white teeth, entirely 
fascinating to the impressionable. She was not 
an ideal assistant in the work of the shop, and 
Mrs. Zukerman would have turned her off but 
for the charms whose practical value a German 
intelligence had early appraised. 

‘^How many men would be cornin’ in for lunch 
if I was a little milk-and-water baby like Annie ?” 
Lena demanded one day, when Mrs. Zukerman 
had admonished her with more than usual earnest- 
ness to model her conduct upon that of the ex- 
7 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

emplary devotee. ‘^And speakin’ of that,” she 
went on, suddenly intent upon the matter in 
hand, ‘^when are you goin’ to give me that raise 
I was askin’ you about ?” 

“The business is too small but yet,” Mrs. 
Zukerman declared in alarm. 

“Then I get me a better place,” said Lena, 
with such decision that another dollar was at 
once added to her weekly stipend. She took 
great satisfaction in this substantial tribute to 
the graces of her person, and made a flaunting 
reference to the subject when Annie ran in for 
rolls next day. 

Annie, in her starched frock, brought with her 
the freshness of the morning. Her brown hair 
was neatly braided, her pink cheeks had a wonder- 
ful delicacy of texture and tone, and her large 
blue eyes were innocently sweet, despite the look 
of precision and conscious virtue that hung about 
her mouth. The two girls made an odd contrast, 
for Lena’s good looks were of the swarthy variety, 
redeemed only at times by a flash or a sparkle, 
and her dress had always a certain gaudiness 
about it that struck the key-note of her person- 
ality. 

“I’m gettin’ six a week after to-day,” she an- 
nounced. 

Annie thought that was very fine, and closed 
8 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

her congratulations by saying that she knew 
Lena was thankful to the blessed Virgin for the 
prosperity that had been accorded her. 

Lena did not risk an opinion about the blessed 
Virgin’s interference in her behalf, she simply 
shrugged her shoulders, and said old Zuky knew 
what she was worth to the business. 

‘‘And how many times have I told you that 
you should not call kind Mrs. Zukerman in that 
way?” Annie asked earnestly. 

Lena laughed, and then Annie, who was kind 
herself, left olF reproving her, and said that Lena 
must have worked very hard to be so valued. 

‘‘Worked!” exclaimed Lena. “Fve a way 
with the men, you little silly.” 

Annie looked shocked, and said in a low voice: 
“If you’ll kindly give me the rolls I’ll go on, for 
my mother’s waiting.” 

Lena made no haste to get the rolls; instead 
she leaned over the counter and said with a 
teasing expression on her face: “Didn’t you never 
cut your eye at a man ?” 

“I wish you wouldn’t talk that way, Lena; 
not to me, at any rate,” said Annie. 

“Why not to you?” Lena demanded. “You 
ain’t a holy sister yet, and I guess you wouldn’t 
stick yourself in no convent if a real swell-lookin’ 
feller should come along.” 

9 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

To this taunt Annie could not help replying, 
‘‘It’s not for lack of a young man wishing to 
marry me that I am going into the convent, 
Lena Schramin,” and she walked out of the 
store at once. 

She was sorry that she had been obliged to 
speak of the young man who wished to marry 
her, for, though the fact of his admiration had 
given her some secret satisfaction, she felt that 
a prospective bride of the church should not 
think of such things, and speaking of them seemed 
almost a violation of sacred law. To be sure, the 
young man, Oscar Hauser, her mother’s lodger, 
inspired Annie with no emotion that could in 
any way interfere with the pursuit of her voca- 
tion. He served her, indeed, merely as an as- 
surance that she understood the so-called joys 
of the world which she was about to renounce. 

Young Hauser, employed as a clerk in the 
delicatessen, was as solid and as interesting look- 
ing as one of the white cheeses which he sliced 
ofF with such extreme accuracy of valuation be- 
hind a counter ornamented with bowls of pickled 
beets and potato salad, and backed by tiers of 
small bottles and cans. He was as correct a 
young man as may be found, and had lodged for 
two years in Mrs. Halligan’s front bedroom, 
paying the weekly charge with a regularity that 


lo 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

commanded the respect of his landlady. Annie 
was sixteen when he first entered her home, and 
her blue-eyed gentility was peculiarly to his taste. 
He was slow in avowing his growing attachment, 
but she was made pleasantly aware of it by the 
offerings which he brought to her each night 
from the store — a can of sardines, a box of ginger 
snaps, or perhaps a little sliced ham. 

“Ye shouldn’t be wastin’ yer presents on her, 
Mr. Hauser, for ye’ll bear in mind she’s goin’ into 
the church, and ’twill do no good,” Mrs. Halligan 
felt called upon to warn him. 

Oscar, however, was not affected by the ad- 
monition, but continued his attentions, and 
bided his time. One evening, when he had 
brought in a fine bit of lobster, moved by Annie’s 
very gracious acceptance of the gift, he made a 
tentative declaration of his sentiments. They 
were alone in the little kitchen which Mrs. Hal- 
ligan kept so beautifully clean. The table with 
its red checkered cloth was between them, and 
Annie partook of the lobster while Oscar watched 
her with satisfaction. 

“It’s very kind of you. I’m sure, to bring me 
so many nice things,” she remarked. 

Oscar’s eyes fell, and he said with evident em- 
barrassment: “They don’t make no difference to 
you, I suppose.” 


II 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

‘‘Why, I like them very much/’ said Annie. 

‘‘I mean you’re not thinkin’ of changin’ your 
plans?” 

‘‘About the holy church?” she asked in sur- 
prise. “You wouldn’t ask me such a question 
if you knew what it was to feel the approbation 
of the blessed saints.” 

Oscar sighed and fell into meditation for a 
while. At last he said: “I don’t suppose there’s 
much variety of eatin’ in a convent.” 

“It makes no difference to the sisters; they’ve 
got a vocation,” said Annie, finishing the last of 
the lobster as she spoke. 

This attitude of mind was incomprehensible 
to Oscar, and he went on with his original method 
of siege, trusting in the silent efficacy of his gifts. 
Annie liked him, and she also liked the wares in 
the delicatessen, but she could not help feeling 
ashamed that she had boasted of him to Lena 
Schramin. She begged absolution for her foolish 
pride the very next day when she went to Father 
Bernard for confession. 

Mrs. Halligan, however, felt no conscientious 
scruple in her enjoyment of the fact that Annie 
had secured a beau, and mentioned it whenever 
opportunity offered, with no desire for absolution 
from the church. It enabled her to hold her own 
with Mrs. Zukerman, who, though fond of Annie, 
12 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

found Mrs. Halligan’s natural pride very exas- 
perating at times. 

“The dear child ain’t got no ways with the 
men,” she said one day. 

“I don’t know what ye may be meanin’,” 
Mrs. Halligan replied. “She has a chance that 
any girl would jump at.” 

“Well, just to think,” said Mrs. Zukerman. 
“And so she’s not to go into the convent after 
all!” 

“Sure she is goin’ into the convent. Did ye 
think it was for lack of findin’ a husband for her 
I’d be puttin’ her there ? I can tell ye, Mrs. 
Zukerman, many is married that wishes they 
wasn’t.” 

This Mrs. Zukerman would have been the last 
to deny. “That’s a true word,” she admitted 
with a sigh. “But I’m surprised already that 
any one should have the nerve to be settin’ up 
to Annie. There was a gentleman in here yester- 
day, and he says, ‘She’s as pretty as cake,’ he 
says, ‘but a man would no more be proposin’ 
marriage to her than to a holy saint.’ ” 

“It’s good they’ve sense enough to save their- 
selves the trouble 1” Mrs. Halligan exclaimed. 

“That’s right!” said the other. “And Annie’s 
got the sweetest manners of any girl I ever see. 
I’m always tellin’ Lena to pattern by her.” 

13 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

‘‘Ye should get Father Bernard to speak to Lena 
for ye. He’s got a way with the young people.” 

“Sure, the priest is here twice already, askin’ 
for her, and she is gone down in the bakin’- 
room hidin’ behind the ovens.” 

“Ah, and he is so kind!” Mrs. Halligan ex- 
claimed. “Like as not he’d laugh if ye was to 
tell him. That’s the only fault I have to find 
with him, he’s so soft and easy like upon the 
young. It’s punishment, and not forgiveness, 
that’ll be helpful to Lena Schramin.” 

“That girl is had her head turned by the men, 
already yet,” Mrs. Zukerman remarked. 

“ Sure, and I don’t know what they see in her,” 
Mrs. Halligan cried. 

“Neither me,” her friend agreed, “but they’re 
in here after her all the time.” 

Mrs. Halligan sniffed. “Proposin’ marriage?” 
she asked sceptically. 

“I couldn’t say,” Mrs. Zukerman answered. 

“Well, ye’d be safe in sayin’, for them is scarce,” 
Mrs. Halligan declared, and, picking up her 
bundle, she went out of the store. She looked 
in at the delicatessen on her way home, to re- 
fresh herself by a word with Oscar, who came 
forward eagerly to wait on her. 

“Is Annie’s toothache better this morning?” 
he inquired at once. 


14 


Father Bernard’s Parish 


“Poor boy!” she exclaimed. “Ye’ll have to 
be puttin’ Annie and her toothache out of yer 
head.” 

“I can’t do it, Mis’ Halligan,” he said with a 
sigh. 

“But think what ye’ll be sufferin’ when she 
has took her vows.” 

“Isn’t it no hope?” he asked, neatly tying 
the package of bologna. 

“None whativer,” said Mrs. Halligan, and 
she went out, the knowledge of Lena Schramin’s 
love-affairs no longer disquieting her mind. 


15 


CHAPTER II 


IM HALLIGAN did not share his mother’s 



X aversion to Lena Schramin, nor did Lena’s 
indifference to Mrs. Halligan include Tim. He 
was a big, well-knit fellow, with an air so mas- 
culine as to command recognition from the other 
sex. His hair, like his sister’s, was brown, with 
a glint in it. His eyes, like hers, were blue, but 
there was a rollicking expression in them that 
never shone in Annie’s. His rich, blond com- 
plexion had in it, too, a depth of tone that her 
more delicate skin lacked. Altogether, he was 
a good-looking, genial young Irishman, and the 
pride of his youth was upon him. It cast a sort 
of glamour about him — this fine, young strength. 
It touched his brain at times and brought him 
strange longings that his nature was not forceful 
enough to fulfil; it coursed through his blood, 
and his passions, rising, wrapped him in their 
flame. Such was Tim, and, dwelling in the same 
block with Lena, it was inevitable that he should 
have come under her sway. He did not frequent 
the lunch-room with her other admirers. In- 
deed, his work as an expressman took him far 
afield, and he never knew just where the noon 


Father Bernardos Parish 

hour would find him. Occasionally, though, he 
lunched at Zukerman’s, and always marked the 
event by quarrelling violently with Lena on the 
subject of her pleasantries with the other cus- 
tomers. Lena resented Tim’s interference, al- 
though she had given him, increasingly, the right 
to interfere. 

He came home late that evening, almost as 
tired as the horse that he drove. The summer 
exit had started early and trunks had a way of 
piling up on his wagon. Passing the saloon on 
the corner below his block, he stopped and got 
a drink or two to put new life into him. The 
habit of doing this had grown upon him of late, 
for the whiskey brought at least a temporary 
refreshment, and so, in Tim’s mind, it justified 
itself. When he came out of the saloon he lit a 
cigarette and sauntered down the street, once 
more aware of his strength. Then he stood on 
the corner for a while and Inhaled the smoke 
before he went into Zukerman’s. 

The late afternoon is not inspiring on Colum- 
bus Avenue. With the morning comes a sense 
of activity, the bustle and stir of trade that is 
enlivening, if not gay, and night brings the season 
of relaxation and rest when the lights give the 
touch of garishness that stirs the fancy of youth, 
but in the late afternoon, a late June afternoon, 

17 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

Columbus Avenue is a dreary place. Tim stood 
on the corner, inhaling smoke. Down the cross 
street came the last gleams of the sun, just sink- 
ing beyond the Palisades. The sky was full of 
little clouds, all turning to gold against the dis- 
tant blue. Eastward lay the park, grassy, wooded, 
and rolling. On both sides of the avenue trades- 
men were closing up, and the debris of the day’s 
toil littered the way. Unsightly, unlovely the 
place was, yet no one of its inhabitants would 
have thought of calling it so. 

Tim felt that there was something wrong — 
with himself, perhaps, for his spirits were low. 
Finally he turned and went upon his way. Oscar 
Hauser, across the street, called to him from the 
door of the delicatessen and so did young Es- 
posito, who was engaged in getting the array of 
fruit and vegetables in front of his father’s store 
housed for the night. Tim returned both greet- 
ings, but he was headed for Zukerman’s, and he 
didn’t stop. He reached the bakery and lunch- 
room just as Lena came out. 

“You’re off early,” she said as they met. 

“I didn’t have nothin’ to deliver down to the 
ocean liners to-day,” he explained. 

Lena looked at him and turned away. 

“What’s the matter now?” he questioned un- 
easily. 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

“You’re drinkinV’ she answered, walking on. 

‘‘You don’t know what drinkin’ means!” he 
exclaimed in derision. 

“I wish I didn’t,” she threw back at him. 

He made a lunge after her and caught her by 
the arm. “Don’t fool with me when I’m tired,” 
he begged. 

“I’d like to be foolin’,” she said. 

“I’ll tell you what. Let’s take the next boat 
to Coney!” he exclaimed with a sudden idea. 

That was it — that was the suggestion for him 
in the summer air! Lena hesitated; she, too, 
felt the vague desire for pleasure that comes with 
June. “You’ll think I don’t mean it about the 
drink,” she said. 

“What’s that got to do with it ? Dude up in 
a hurry and come on.” 

She gave one glance about her at the dirty street. 
The biting smell of malt was in the air from the 
brewery a half-mile up-town. An elevated train 
rushed by on the track above, and, as she raised 
her eyes, she saw a mass of soft, pink cloud that 
had caught the reflection of the sunset. Her 
gaze, usually so bold and self-assertive, grew 
mysterious and poetic. It was as though some 
racial instinct for beauty had welled up within her. 

“You’ll go?” said Tim. He was never quite 
certain just what Lena might mean. 

19 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

“Yes, ril go,’’ she said, and her eyes came 
back to his. 

“Gee, Lena, you’re a peach!” he cried, look- 
ing into the eyes and but half comprehending the 
beauty that in them lay. “Put on your red 
beads,” he said impulsively. 

“You know who give me them beads?” she 
asked, smiling. 

Tim scowled. “If a feller did. I’d rather you’d 
leave ’em off. I’ll get you some myself next 
week.” 

“Don’t forget that,” said Lena, and she ran 
along to get dressed. 

Tim was glad that his mother was still out 
when he reached home. Annie gave him his 
dinner, which he despatched summarily. Then 
he hastened to adorn himself for the outing. 

“Where are you going in such a hurry ?” Annie 
asked. 

“Coney,” said Tim, making his toilet at the 
hydrant in the kitchen. 

“Mother told you not to wash at the sink, 
Tim.” 

“It’s more handier,” Tim spluttered. He was 
throwing the water around very freely. 

“I shall just leave the floor all spattered up 
for mother to see,” said Annie, who had not yet 
attained the full measure of her sainthood. 


20 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

“Aw, it’ll dry,” said Tim. 

“Are you going with Lena?” she asked after 
a moment. 

“Yep.” 

“You are always wasting your money, Tim. 
I’m sure I don’t know what you can see in such 
a place,” said Annie. 

“Ever been there ?” 

“You know I have not been there, and I never 
shall go.” 

Tim made no reply, he was getting wrought 
up over his collar-button. 

“Let me fasten it,” Annie volunteered, and he 
came over to her, perspiring from his effort. 

Annie had no difficulty in fastening the collar, 
for her fingers were slim and dexterous. Her 
brother’s manner improved after that, and he 
went off in high good spirits, hurrying to get 
away before his mother should return. 

Annie looked out of the front window to see 
him meet Lena. She watched the two of them 
cross the street toward Amsterdam Avenue for 
the car, then she pulled up the awning and sat 
there as the night came on and the lights in the 
windows sprang into being, one by one. 

Young Esposito got out his cornet and started 
his nerve-racking struggle to hit elusive notes. 
Mrs. Zukerman, next door, turned her grapho- 


21 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

phone loose on a brass band record, and across 
the street, in front of the delicatessen, Oscar 
Hauser performed upon the accordion while he 
kept the store, as he did every other night until 
eleven. By the doleful sounds that the instru- 
ment gave forth Annie knew that he was thinking 
of her, and she left the window and, opening her 
old piano, she, too, contributed to ‘^the voices of 
the night.” 

Mrs. Halligan, toiling up the stair, stopped for 
a moment as she heard the first crashing notes 
of the introduction that Annie was executing. 
‘‘Faith, she can beat the life out of that piano,” 
the good woman said with satisfaction. 

At the up-town pier of the Coney Island boats 
Tim and Lena stood waiting in the crowd for 
the gates to open, conscious only of their near- 
ness to each other and of the pleasant sense of 
gayety and expectancy attendant upon their 
outing. Finally, the crowd moved on board the 
big boat. The band was playing and every- 
body was good-natured and agreeably excited. 

Once upon the middle deck, Tim seized Lena 
and pushed his way in a one-step through to the 
open space where the dancing was to be. Such 
a sinuous dancer, Lena ! Such a sure and grace- 
ful leader, Tim! Each knew the other’s step, 
for they had Castle-walked or fox-trotted many 


22 


Father Bernard’s Parish 


a mile together, and there was not a possible 
twist or turn with which they did not accentuate 
their dancing. Sooner or later the less skillful 
dancers always fell to watching them, then Tim 
would break away and carry Lena out of the ad- 
miring crowd. He did so upon this occasion, also, 
stopping abruptly at the edge of the circle, where, 
turning on his heel, he swung her out of the lime- 
light. 

“Let’s get them two chairs over by the railin’,” 
he suggested. 

“You are some dancer, Tim !” Lena exclaimed. 

Tim received the compliment in silence and 
led her onward to the chairs he had marked. 

“I didn’t come with you to set ofF in the cor- 
ner,” she protested, but there was a teasing note 
in her voice which told him that she did not 
really object. 

He leaned over the railing awhile and watched 
the water slip under the great side-wheel. “I 
always had a fancy for them wheels,” he said. 
“Say, want to go down to the engine-room? I 
know one of the oilers on this boat.” 

Lena drew in a deep breath of the salt air that 
was sweeping in with the tide. “No, I don’t 
want to go in no engine-room,” she said, and 
stretched her arms out to the breeze. 

The darkening shores on either hand were set 

23 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

with lights, the stars were showing faintly over- 
head, though the opal-tinted sky was still reminis- 
cent of the sun. 

‘‘Better than the avenue, ain’t it?” she cried. 

“Well, I should say!” Tim exclaimed, and 
slipped his arm around her waist as he spoke. 
She turned to him, smiling, and let it stay. There 
were people all around them, to be sure, but 
they, too, were absorbed in their own affairs. At 
any rate, they were not surprised at the way 
Tim and Lena were behaving. 

“Why can’t you be like this always?” he 
asked. 

“I wasn’t made soft,” she said laughing. Yet 
she seemed disposed to continue in her melting 
mood; Tim had seldom found her so responsive. 

“I wore the beads you asked me to,” she said, 
fingering the red chain about her throat. 

“I didn’t ask you to wear ’em if another feller 
gave ’em to you,” Tim replied. ' 

“Who do you think gave ’em to me?” she 
asked again. 

“It don’t make no difference to me, but you 
ain’t goin’ to wear ’em when I take you out!” 
he cried, and suddenly he leaned over and fumbled 
clumsily with the chain, looking for the clasp 
that he might unfasten it and take it off her 
neck. She seized it in alarm and, between them, 
24 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

the thread was broken. Lena cried out as the 
rain of beads fell noisily to the deck. Every- 
body turned to see the cause of the commotion, 
and even the loving couples near began to pick 
up the stray beads that rolled in their direction. 

‘‘I didn’t go to break it, Lena,” Tim said with 
some embarrassment. 

“What did you think they was strung on ? 
Steel wire wouldn’t stand your pullin’ on it.” 

“I didn’t have hardly a good grip on it,” he 
protested. “Anyway, I’m goin’ to get you some 
more next week.” 

“These cost me eighty-nine cents,” Lena re- 
marked airily. 

“What made you say a feller gave ’em to 
you ?” 

“I didn’t say so.” 

Tim looked at her in exasperation. “If you 
ain’t enough to get anybody riled up!” he ex- 
claimed. 

The band started just then and Lena began 
to hum along with it. “Come on, let’s dance,” 
she said. 

“You can dance with somebody else,” he an- 
swered glumly. 

At that she slipped her hand into his. “Who 
could I dance with that knows my step as good 
as you do, Tim ?” 


25 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

“Oh, you just want to show ofF your dancin’/’ 
Tim said, clasping her hand, though, just the same. 

“Come on, Tim,” she begged, and gave a tug 
that brought him. 

The breeze freshened, the big side-wheeler 
heaved a little every now and then, yet the 
rhythmic tread of the dancers kept on and the 
band continued its brazen music, weary trom- 
bone players drawing heavily on their second 
wind, and fat cornetists thinking thirstily of 
Coney. What a golden hour it was ! Before the 
evening was over Tim looked back to it with 
a heavy heart. He had the knack of quarrelling 
with Lena. She stirred the fires of his jealousy 
and resented his eflForts to check her. 

He longed to put his arms around her and 
break her will by the very force of his love. Yet 
he couldn’t do that. What stood between them? 
Was it her temper or his ? Tim didn’t know. 
He was not skilled in the analysis of the heart, 
but he felt the barrier, just the same. 

The evening ended unhappily for them both, 
and for Tim, unhappiness brought a dangerous 
reaction. He knew he was going to drink. Lena 
knew it, too. She moved her hand to touch his 
with the gentle caress that would have thrown all 
misunderstanding aside, but something stopped 
her. 


26 


Father Bernard’s Parish 


‘‘I want a man; I can’t stand a feller holdin* 
himself up by me!” she said to herself pas- 
sionately. There was a lump in her throat, 
though, and it choked the meaningless little 
song she had been humming to show her indif- 
ference to Tim and all that concerned him. 


27 


CHAPTER III 



iHE coming of the new butcher to the block 


A caused a great deal of talk — chiefly for the 
reason that old Schramin, who had been in sole 
possession of that precinct for a number of years, 
was violent in temper, and felt that the trade of 
the neighborhood belonged to himself. It was 
Lena who brought him in the news of his future 
rival in business. Mrs. Zukerman had found 
Mrs. Halligan’s information about the new butcher 
too good to keep, so she had imparted it to Lena 
when the girl came up with the pan of coflFee cakes 
from the basement, 

‘‘He’ll bite off more then he can chew if he 
comes into this block,” said Lena ominously. 
She bore the information in mind, however, and 
made it over to her father when she went home. 

There was an ugly, menacing look on old 
Schramin’s face. “Let him come. I’ll make it 
hot for him,” he said. 

“I don’t know what you’ll do, Mr. Schramin,” 
wailed his puny-looking wife. “We haven’t got 
no rights to drive him away, and we can’t hardly 
make expenses now.” 


28 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

‘^Shut up r’ Schramin ordered. He couldn’t 
understand how he had come to marry his ‘‘sec- 
ond.” 

Lena couldn’t understand it, either, and her 
respect for her father’s judgment had been im- 
paired by the alliance. She had an odd sort of 
affection, though, for her stepmother; the helpless, 
incompetent creature appealed to her strangely. 
At any rate, the two made common cause, and 
poor Mrs. Schramin had learned to look to Lena 
for sympathy, sometimes for protection. 

The news of Donnelly’s coming spread rapidly, 
and, in the next day or two, everybody interested 
went in to see how Schramin was taking it. Only 
a few persons had the hardihood to speak of the 
matter, and they rather regretted doing so, for 
Schramin could be unpleasant when he so desired, 
and he now considered that the occasion war- 
ranted unpleasantness. 

“Did you come for meat?” he asked pointedly, 
leaning across the marble counter with a scowl 
on his heavy face. 

A daring customer had merely said: “So we 
are going to have a stranger on the block.” 

Schramin did condescend to discuss the mat- 
ter with Mrs. Zukerman, however, with whom he 
was on terms of some friendliness. “The man 
must be a fool, starting business in June,” he 
29 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

said. “It^s as much as an established butcher 
can do to get through the summer. Fm no more 
afraid of him than of a fly, for he’ll be good and 
dead by September.” 

That remark deserved circulation, and Mrs. 
Zukerman passed it on to her customers, so that 
the impression finally got out that Schramin 
was going to cause an excitement of some sort 
during the summer, and the block was pleasantly 
stirred in anticipation. Schramin himself, if 
the truth were known, had made no definite plan 
of action in regard to his rival, but he was rather 
pleased that his neighbors should be looking for 
violent measures from him and was careful not 
to let them suspect the infertility of his brain. 

The new butcher, Reuben Donnelly, arrived, 
to occupy the room he had engaged from Mrs. 
Halligan, on Monday, the better to acquaint him- 
self with the neighborhood before his Saturday 
opening, and to superintend the transformation 
of the ‘‘laundry that was” into “The Palace of 
Meats,” as his gold-lettered sign designated the 
shop. He was approachable and talkative, and 
he made a number of calls, soliciting the good- 
will of the section. On all sides he was warned 
against Schramin, and his self-importance was 
flattered by the evident stir that he was making. 
He spent many an hour discussing the situation 

30 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

with Mrs. Halligan, who lent an interested ear 
to his remarks. 

‘‘I shall endeavor to substantiate my protesta- 
tions to all who honor me with their custom/’ he 
assured her. Mr. Donnelly made very elegant use 
of English. ‘‘And as for a low person like old 
Schramin, Fm above paying attention to him, 
Mrs. Halligan. If I wasn’t above it I would be 
ashamed to set here in your self-respecting home, 
addressing myself to your kind attention, and 
thrown, as you may say, in daily association with 
a young lady about to enter the hallowed sister- 
hood of the church. No, Mrs. Halligan. Reuben 
Donnelly is on the square, and he’s not going to 
undermine the business of no man, even if his 
sentiments is turned against me, as I understand, 
from reliable sources, to be the case with Mr. 
Schramin.” 

“Ye’ve a right feelln’ disposition,” said Mrs. 
Halligan approvingly. 

“Yes, I may say, without boasting, that I 
think I have. Some that I have made the ac- 
quaintance of recently says to me, ‘Mr. Donnelly,’ 
they says, ‘we’d like to see you run Schramin out.’ 
But that is beyond my calculations, Mrs. Halligan. 
I don’t intend to run him out, but, believe me, 
I don’t intend to let him run me out, neither.” 

“Don’t ye do it,” said Mrs. Halligan. 

31 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

“Of course, now,” Donnelly went on, “there 
may be some will say I cannot appreciate the 
emotions of a married man and a father, in seeing 
the bread, so to speak, took from the mouths of 
his innocent children, but they are mistaken, 
ma’am. I may not be a family man, but I ” 

“Ye’re not keepin’ comp’ny, even?” Mrs. 
Halligan asked, interrupting further analysis of 
Mr. Donnelly’s sentiments. 

He became consciously uproarious. “Well, 
now, that’s what might be known as a leading 
question. However, it’s not one that I will re- 
fuse to answer. 

‘‘ Mrs. Halligan, my feelings concerning matri- 
mony is deep, and I make no secret of the fact 
that the average young woman does not come up 
to my ideel.” He sighed heavily. “Having an 
ideel has been the making of me, for I may say, 
without boasting, that I’m a high-principled 
young man, such as your daughter, Miss Annie, 
may very well associate with.” 

“Ye’ll remember that she’s goin’ into the 
church,” Mrs. Halligan said warningly. 

“I will,” he answered. “Though I will remark 
that that delicate, refined young lady comes 
nearer to my ideel than any one I have yet seen. 
I have met her only once, but I’m a judge of 
character, Mrs. Halligan.” 

32 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

‘‘Father Bernard thinks Annie is a very fine 
girl,” Mrs. Halligan said. “But ye must not be 
settin’ up to her.” 

“I swear to you that Til make no advances 
that may disturb her peace of mind.” 

Mr. Donnelly made the promise advisedly, for 
Annie, while realizing his ideal so nearly in ap- 
pearance and virtue, had not inspired him with 
enthusiasm for her society. He attributed his 
lack of interest in her, however, to his own high- 
principled respect for her vocation, and, still 
thinking of the matter, he had his usual com- 
fortable feeling of self-approval as he entered 
Zukerman’s at the lunch hour and encountered 
Lena Schramin. 

Lena let him sit unnoticed for some minutes 
while she served the first comers, wasting much 
time in conversation as she did so, for she was 
in a good humor that day. 

At last Donnelly tipped his chair back and 
touched her on the arm as she passed. “Why 
can’t I get in this game .? I want something to 
eat, if it’s all the same to you,” he said. 

“You’ll have to wait your turn; I can’t look 
after everybody at once,” she answered. Her 
tone was curt, but her glance seemed to appraise 
his masculine charms. 

Donnelly almost forgot his lunch, and sat half 

33 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

turned around in his chair, waiting for a word 
with her as she came and went. 

When she had finished with the others she 
stopped at his table. ‘‘What is it you want?” 

“I want you to talk to me,” he answered 
boldly. 

“Cut that out,” said Lena. “Coffee, tea, 
buttermilk, and milk!” 

“Coffee’ll do, and you’ll fix it. Won’t you?” 

“That’s extra,” said Lena, giving him a bit 
of a smile. 

“I’m willing to pay extra, if you’ll do it.” 

“Mrs. Zukerman will do it for you. I’m busy,” 
she told him, and went off. 

“I say,” Donnelly called after her, but she 
paid no attention. 

She brought him a cup on her return trip, and, 
placing it in front of him, passed on to the next 
table without a word. 

Donnelly looked at it and then raised his voice. 
“See here, this is tea, and I ordered coffee.” 

“There ain’t any more coffee,” she replied. 

“Why, I saw you give that fellow over there 
some just now.” 

“He’s a regular customer. We don’t make no 
more than our regulars need.” 

“Well, this is a nice lunch-room,” said Donnelly. 

“There’s another three blocks down,” Lena 

34 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

remarked. “But, if you care to stay, bein’ as it’s 
tea, ril sugar that free of charge.” 

Again she smiled upon him. 

‘‘You’re a peach!” he exclaimed. 

“I hope you ain’t a pear,” said Lena mean- 
ingly. 

“Why not I Don’t you like pears ?” 

“No. I like single men better,” she replied, 
at which he laughed with great enjoyment. 

“Are you going to save some coffee for me to- 
morrow?” he asked. 

“Will you be a regular customer?” 

“As long as you are here,” said Donnelly. 

“You mean as long as you get what you like,” 
Lena amended, and left him. 

She had a way of breaking off before a man 
had had his say. 

“Don’t go!” he cried, but she didn’t even 
turn to look back, and there was nothing left 
for him to do but to fall upon his lunch. Sud- 
denly he was addressed from the next table, 
where sat a middle-aged man, drab-colored. “Are 
you goin’ to drink it ?” 

“Meaning the tea?” asked Donnelly. “Yes, 
why not ? ” 

“Well, I wouldn’t like to say. Perhaps you 
don’t know who that girl is.” 

“’It’s of no consequence to me,” said Donnelly. 

35 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

“Fm not of the disposition to be worrying about 
‘who’s who,’ as the saying is.” 

“You are the new butcher, ain’t you?” asked 
the other. 

“I am, sir, Reuben Donnelly, of the Palace of 
Meats.” 

“I thought so.” 

“Yes, I suppose I’m a marked man around 
here.” 

“That’s Schramin’s daughter,” said the older 
man pointedly. “And she’d just as soon put 
poison into your tea as milk and sugar.” 

Donnelly put down the cup he had just raised. 
“What do you mean?” he asked, losing color a 
little as he spoke. 

“Take it from me, don’t trust a woman — least- 
ways not Lena Schramin. That girl’s got the 
makin’ of a devil in her.” 

Donnelly drew himself up. “I can’t listen to 
no calumnies about any lady of my acquaintance, 
sir.” 

“Oh, very well, drink the tea, then.” 

The young man addressed himself to the bread 
and butter. “May I inquire your name and 
business, sir?” he asked after a moment. 

“J. Veinig, cobbler,” said the other shortly. 

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Veinig.” 

Veinig grunted. He had grown crabbed with 

36 


Father Bernard’s Parish 


overmuch cobbling, and, perhaps, he had had no 
great amount of amiability at the outset. His 
remarks did not contribute to Donnelly’s enjoy- 
ment of his lunch, and the young man finished 
without further reference to his teacup. It was 
a foolish fancy, of course, but since he had once 
had the idea of poison put into his head, he 
couldn’t drink with any comfort. 

Lena passed again, just as he rose to go. 
‘‘What’s the matter with the tea?” she de- 
manded. 

“Well, you know, I wanted cofiPee,” he excused 
himself by saying. Veinig cut his eye up over 
the edge of his newspaper, and Donnelly’s gaze 
shifted. 

“You’re a strange one,” said Lena, looking 
him over slowly. 

“But don’t you fancy something out of the 
common ?” he asked. 

“I don’t like nothin’ fresh,” she answered with 
no great regard for truth. 

“Well, you’ll find there’s nothing fresh about 
Reuben Donnelly except the meat he sells,” he 
said proudly. 

“So you’re the new butcher?” 

“You knew I was. Now, what do you think 
of him?” 

Lena gave him a look that might mean many 

37 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

things. He interpreted it flatteringly, as most 
of the men who encountered it were in the habit 
of doing. 

‘‘Why didn’t you tell me you were Mr. 
Schramin’s daughter?” he asked. 

“Didn’t Veinig tell you ?” 

“He did mention it.” 

“Well, he isn’t no friend of mine, and I guess 
he didn’t mention anything too good about 
me,” 

“Nothing he could say would influ’nce me,” 
Donnelly assured her. “And, furthermore, I 
gave him to understand that his insinuations 
concerning any lady friend of mine were both 
unpleasant and not solicited.” 

Lena held his glance for a moment. “So you 
don’t care for tea.” 

“Not particularly.” 

“I’ll try you on coffee to-morrow,” she said, 
and turned away after prolonging the look. It 
seemed like a challenge. Did she divine his sus- 
picions ? 

Donnelly went out with an uncomfortable 
feeling, for he realized that he would have to 
drink the coffee. He dropped in at Veinig’s that 
night and told him it would have been better if 
he had not been so free with his warnings. 

“The fact is, it’s you that has poisoned my 

38 


Father Bernard’s Parish 


imagination,” he said, ‘‘and that young lady 
has not such a thought in the back part of her 
head/^ 

“Have it your own way; Fve done my duty,” 
said Veinig, who spoke little. He was busy at 
his cobbling, although it was late. His habit 
was to work at night, however, and he sat by his 
bench with bowed shoulders, as countless gen- 
erations of cobblers have sat before him. Theirs 
is an honest trade, as ancient as it is honest, and 
likely to be maintained, despite refinements of 
manufacture. His “Boot and Shoemaker” sign 
was a relic of ancestral glory, for Veinig had 
small occasion to call himself a shoemaker. He 
resoled and half-soled, and put on patches and 
toes and heels, but seldom made a pair of shoes 
in their entirety. However, he had jobbing to 
do in plenty, and that was the main thing, for 
he had ceased to take any special pride in his 
efforts, but was satisfied as long as they secured 
food and shelter for himself and his humpbacked 
son. 

Harry sat on the end of his father’s bench, 
looking at Donnelly with shy interest. “How 
much do you weigh?” he asked, when conversa- 
tion had come to a standstill between the two 
men. 

Donnelly swelled out his chest at once. “So 

39 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

that’s what the youngster’s been thinking of. 
Now, what do you suppose a man of my size 
would weigh ^ I may say, without boasting, 
Mr. Veinig, that I am not too fleshy for my 
height.” 

Veinig did not look up from his work. Harry 
put his head on one side and guessed within a 
pound of Donnelly’s weight. He had a passion- 
ate admiration for size and strength, and had 
developed accurate judgment in such matters. 

‘‘Tim Halligan is bigger than you,” he said. 

‘H dare say. There’s many a one bigger than 
me, but I’m satisfied as I am, for I’m not partial 
to a fat man.” 

‘'Tim’s not fat!” cried Harry, “and he’s 
stronger than you, too.” 

Donnelly looked at the little fellow’s crooked 
body and big head and laughed. “Are you Tim’s 
trainer. Captain.?” he asked. He didn’t mean 
to make fun of the child, but Harry reddened 
and said nothing. 

“Sensitive,” Donnelly remarked to himself. 
“And who is Tim ?” he asked. 

The boy was silent. 

“Leave him be,” said Veinig, as the visitor 
made another effort to renew the conversation. 
“Tim is a drunken good-for-nothin’.” 

“It’s just since he’s fell into bad comp’ny that 
40 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

he’s took to drlnkin’, and he’s good to me,” 
Harry cried out. 

Veinig went on with his work. He grudged 
Tim his place in Harry’s affections. 

‘‘He can lift trunks as easy as shoe boxes,” 
Harry went on in praise of his friend. 

“He’s an expressman, then,” said Donnelly. 

Harry looked at him in surprise. “Don’t you 
stay with Mrs. Halligan?” 

“That’s where.” 

“Then you ought to know Tim. It’s Tim 
Halligan — her boy.” 

“Much good he is to her,” said Veinig. 

“Sure enough. The poor woman is always 
bewailing herself about her boy. That’s Tim, eh ? 
I’ve not seen him since I’ve taken up my resi- 
dence in the house,” Donnelly said. 

“Off on another drunk, no doubt,” Veinig re- 
marked. 

“He’s workin’ nights,” said Harry. “He told 
me it’s somethin’ fierce the way trunks is runnin’ 
out this summer.” 

“You’ve always an excuse for him!” Veinig 
exclaimed. 

They were an interesting pair, the cobbler and 
his humpbacked boy, but Donnelly grew bored 
as the talk centred around Tim, and he rose 
to go. 


41 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

‘‘Just a word more about that young lady/’ 
he said. 

“Fve no more words to waste on her/’ Veinig 
declared. “If you don’t choose to take my warn- 
in’, leave it.” 

“ But now, you don’t really think she’d do such 
a thing as poison a fellow, do you ?” the younger 
man asked uneasily. 

“I think a woman would do anything; I’ve 
got reason to think so — Harry and me.” 

“No doubt,” said Donnelly, “no doubt. But 
about Lena Schramin ” 

“Lena Schramin is Tim’s girl!” cried Harry. 

“Oh, she is, is she ? Well, maybe Tim will find 
things going different from what he expects,” 
Donnelly suggested, smiling. 

“Are you stuck on her?” Harry asked. 

“Now, that’s telling, young man,” the new 
butcher said, enjoying very much the considera- 
tion of his sentiments. “But I won’t conceal 
from you, Mr. Veinig, that there’s a fascination 
about Miss Schramin, though I’m not saying 
she’s exactly my ideel.” 

“Ain’t she?” Veinig asked shortly. 

“No, sir; my ideel is something pink and white 
and soft spoken.” 

“Them’s the worst sort,” said Veinig. 

Donnelly failed to interpret the bitterness of 
42 


Father Bernard’s Parish 


his tone, however, and went out of the little 
shop, glad of a breath of fresh air after the acrid 
smell of leather, and gladder still of the light 
and life of the street as a contrast to the depres- 
sion of Mr. Veinig and the melancholy aspect of 
Harry. 


A 


43, 


CHAPTER IV 


IM HALLIGAN had only recently taken to 



JL drink, but his fondness for it seemed so 
strong that his mother’s anxiety was entirely 
justified. 

“It’s only since he’s fell into bad comp’ny,” 
she said to Father Bernard, to whom came all 
the news of the block sooner or later, since he 
was the confessor of half the neighborhood. 

“Tim has a good heart,” said the priest, who 
had a feeling for goodness, however deep it 
might lie. 

“Bless ye for them words, father!” Mrs. Hal- 
ligan exclaimed. They were seated in her* little 
kitchen, the priest upon a chair of state, which 
she had hurriedly brought from the room of one 
of her lodgers. 

“Ye’ll be rememberin’ how much he used to 
think of his mother when he was a little chap. 
^ Annie can go into the convent,’ he says, ‘but 
I’m goin’ to stay with me mother 1 ”’ 

Father Bernard sighed. He had met with 
much discouragement from these kindly, affec- 
tionate natures. 

“And as for that humpbacked boy of Veinig’s,” 


44 


Father Bernard’s Parish 


Mrs. Halligan went on, “he thinks somethin’ of 
him, I guess. Tim is always tidin’ him in the 
express-wagon, and givin’ him odd pennies, and 
so on.” 

“Yes, I’ve seen him with little Harry,” said 
the father. Then he looked into Mrs. Halligan’s 
face, so worn by poverty and care, and he fancied 
that, for her, young Tim was but another influ- 
ence at work, cutting away the dross and shaping 
her spirit for a nobler life. He did not forget 
the pain that the boy inflicted, though, for it 
was his humanity that had called Father Bernard 
to the priesthood. So he let Mrs. Halligan tell 
him the tale of Tim’s childhood, that he had 
heard very often before, until she had soothed 
herself with happy remembrance, and then he 
led her on to speak of Annie. 

“She’s the same as ever,” said the poor woman 
with a sudden glow of pride at mention of her 
daughter’s name. 

“Are you still sure that she wishes to give 
up the world ?” he asked earnestly. 

Mrs. Halligan threw out her hand in a gesture 
of impatience. “And what’s in the world but 
trouble, father?” she exclaimed. 

Father Bernard made no answer. He did not 
underestimate the life he had renounced. “She 
is very young,” he said, after a pause. 

45 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

‘‘Then she can give a pure soul to the service 
of the blessed Virgin.’’ 

“Yes,” said the priest. “Yes,” but the thought 
of Annie’s pure little soul, inexperienced and 
untested, lay heavy upon his heart. He was a 
spare, ascetic-looking man, with a fineness of 
line and feature not distinctive of his parish. 

“We must be very sure that she has a calling,” 
he said solemnly. 

“It’s no trouble about bein’ sure of that,” Mrs. 
Halligan remarked. “You should see how little 
use she’s got for Mr. Hauser, the young man in 
the delicatessen that’s lodgin’ here. He’s after 
her with presents all the time, but it’s no good, 
for Annie’s set on the church.” 

“Perhaps some one else would please her bet- 
ter,” the father suggested. He knew Oscar. 

“Never a fear of that ! Here’s Mr. Donnelly, 
the new butcher, lodgin’ with me for more than 
a week, and he has a elegant education, too, but 
Annie is never givin’ him a thought.” 

Father Bernard made inquiries about the new 
butcher, and Mrs. Halligan, no longer so intent 
upon their talk, noted the evidences of languor 
in his frail body. There was a give to his shoulders, 
and his long, thin hands were nerveless and re- 
laxed. 

“Ye’ll not be feelin’ well this mornin’, father,” 
she said anxiously as he rose to go. 

46 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

, “I?” said the priest in surprise. ‘‘Why, I’m 
always well.” 

“Wouldn’t a bit of a nip taste good to ye?” 
she suggested in an apologetic manner. 

Father Bernard declined, and told her that 
she should not keep liquor about. 

“Sure it’s for sickness. I will be havin’ the 
same bottle since me old man died, and Tim is 
not smelled the cork,” she assured him. 

She opened the door wide to throw a little 
light into the passage, as he made his way down 
the stair. “God bless ye, father!” she called 
to him over the railing; then, going back into 
her flat, she said half aloud: “I trust he’ll be 
lastin’ me time.” 

Father Bernard looked in at the “Palace of 
Meats” for a few minutes to make the acquain- 
tance of Mr. Donnelly. 

“I take it very kind of you, father,” said the 
butcher, offering his large hand to the visitor. 
His arms, bared to the elbows, displayed inter- 
esting tattooed designs in red and blue ink. 
“Of course I know you have no trade to bring, 
but I appreciate your good-will,” he said mag- 
nanimously. 

The father bowed. A lifetime had not over- 
come his aversion to the smugly complacent. “I 
shall look for you at mass,” he said in parting. 

“I’ll be there. I’m not one to neglect my 

47 


Father Bernard’s Parish 


religious duties,” said Donnelly. ^‘And here’s a 
little trifle for your poor,” he added, taking a 
quarter from the cash-drawer as he spoke. ‘‘If all 
would do their share, you’d have no trouble, I 
dare say.” 

The natural man in Father Bernard would 
have liked nothing better than to refuse the 
quarter and denounce the condescension that 
offered it, but the natural man, if not dead, was, 
at least, not dominant, and the utmost that he 
permitted himself was to accept the gift in his 
official capacity. 

“Who giveth to the poor, lendeth to the Lord,” 
he said with dignity. 

“That’s right,” Donnelly agreed. 

“He means well,” the priest reminded him- 
self, as he went upon his way, yet he was not 
surprised that Donnelly and his education had 
failed to score with Annie Halligan. 

There were times when Father Bernard felt 
himself hampered in his work by a certain fas- 
tidiousness of inheritance and breeding, and the 
recent encounter depressed him. Suddenly the 
name of “ Veinig” on a window brought the acer- 
bity of the cobbler pleasantly to his mind, and he 
looked in for a chat. 

Veinig boasted of atheism, but he sent Harry 
to a Lutheran Sunday-school. Father Bernard, 
48 


Father Bernard’s Parish 


however, had a Catholicity broader than that of 
his church. Harry sat upon the bench within, 
and his face brightened as he saw the priest. 

‘‘My father is gone over to Zukerman’s for his 
lunch,” he explained, clearing off a chair and 
looking up with an air of invitation. 

The visitor felt the welcome that the boy gave 
and valued it. “Shall you be a cobbler when you 
grow up ?” he asked as they talked. 

“No, Fm goin’ to be an expressman like Tim,” 
said Harry at once; and then, in a touchingly 
explanatory tone, added: “Tim says he’s seen 
humpbacks just as strong as other men.” 

Under Harry’s eye Father Bernard had not 
the courage to question Tim’s statement. 
“Shouldn’t you like to get a good education so 
you could work with your head?” he suggested 
instead. 

“Like who?” 

The father pondered a moment. There were 
not many in the neighborhood to whom he could 
refer. “Like your teacher,” he said at last. 

“She’s a lady.” 

“Well, then, like the principal.” 

Harry shook his head. “Fd rather be like Tim 
— if I could.” There were times when he was tor- 
mented by doubts about the strong humpbacks. 

“What makes you like Tim so much?” asked 

49 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

the father. It occurred to him that the little 
fellow might give him some information about 
poor Mrs. Halligan’s son. 

‘‘He’s good to me, and he’s strong,” said 
Harry. “Tim can carry three hundred pounds.” 

“He won’t keep his strength long unless he 
stops drinking,” the father said. 

“Is that the truth?” Harry asked anxiously. 

Father Bernard assured him that it was, and 
the boy looked troubled. 

“I was talkin’ to him about it once and he 
told me to shut up,” he said. 

“Do you know what made him take to drink ?” 
the priest asked. 

“He fell into bad comp’ny,” said Harry, re- 
peating the formula evasively, and not meeting 
his friend’s eye. 

The priest felt that there was more behind the 
statement. “And what drove him to bad com- 
pany ?” 

“You won’t tell?” Harry asked cautiously. 

“Not unless I can help him.” 

“ But you won’t say I was talkin’ about him ? 
Tim don’t like no one to talk about him, you 
know.” 

The father promised, and Harry said promptly; 
“It’s nothin’ but his girl, Lena Schramin. She 
treats him mean.” 

SO 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

“Is Lena Schramin Tim’s girl?” 

“Sometimes she says she will be, and some- 
times she says Tim can go to the devil,” said 
Harry, quoting Lena with matter-of-fact inno- 
cence. 

“So, that’s it,” the priest said thoughtfully, 
and silence fell in the little shop. 

“My father says the women make all the 
trouble,” said Harry at last. 

The speech gave to Father Bernard a sudden 
realization of the dreariness of the boy’s home. 
He had risen to go, but he sat down again on 
the bench by Harry, and put his hand on the 
little fellow’s knee. “Your father doesn’t mean 
a great deal that he says, my boy.” 

“He’s all right,” said Harry shortly. 

The priest said no more, for he remembered 
that Veinig was “all right” in his love for Harry, 
at any rate, and he was not sure but that he would 
do more harm than good by defending the man 
to his son. Tim’s case, however, seemed to him 
to require action, and he went out and walked 
up the avenue for ten blocks or more before he 
came to a decision. Then he retraced his steps 
to the bakery. 

The noonday rush was over, and Mrs. Zuker- 
man was awaiting the return of the boy who 
had gone for a pitcher of beer. The priest’s visit 
SI 


Father Bernard’s Parish 


was embarrassing under such circumstances, for 
the messenger might come back at any moment, 
but it was an honor, and, though not one of his 
flock, she greeted him cordially. 

“It is a long time already since you are here, 
father,’’ she said. 

“That’s a good sign,” Father Bernard replied, 
smiling. “You seem as prosperous as ever.” 

“Oh, prosperous!” Mrs. Zukerman exclaimed 
with a sigh, “The price of sugar is almost runnin’ 
us out of the business.” 

“Is Lena with you still ?” 

“Oh, Lena! Jah. And that girl is goin’ to 
kill me, father. You never seen no one give me 
trouble like her.” 

“I’d like to talk to her awhile,” he said. 

Mrs. Zukerman’s face beamed with satisfac- 
tion. ‘‘Jah, and tell her she better be mindin’ 
what I’m sayin’ to her, and keepin’ the store 
brushed out every day. Will she bring you a 
cup of coffee?” 

The suggestion of coffee reminded the father 
that he was fatigued, and he thanked his hostess 
and took the chair that she indicated. 

“I’m glad you’ve come, for Lena is not afraid 
of nothin’ but the Virgin and the saints,” she 
remarked, and withdrew quickly, as she had 
sighted the boy crossing the street with the 
pitcher. 


52 


Father Bernard’s Parish 


Lena responded with reluctance to the sum- 
mons of Father Bernard. Mrs. Zukerman was 
quite right: she was uneasy before the author- 
ity of the church. She took some time in getting 
the coffee, then she made an unnecessary trip 
to the rear to replenish the milk-pitcher, and 
then there was nothing for it but to sit down by 
the priest as he bade her and wait for him to 
tell her about not going to mass. Father Ber- 
nard’s task, however, was not quite so simple, 
and he scarcely knew how to begin. 

‘‘You’ve grown to be a woman, Lena,” he said, 
feeling that he must lead off in some way. 

“Yes, your Reverence,” said Lena. Was he 
going to tell her that it was time for her to go 
into a convent as Annie was to do ? 

“And you’ll soon be thinking of getting mar- 
ried, I suppose.” 

Lena’s mind was relieved. “No, your Rever- 
ence.” 

He felt that he was getting at his point in the 
wrong way if, indeed, he was getting at it at all; 
so he finished his coffee in silence, and Lena 
volunteered no remark. Then he put down the 
cup and looked at her. 

“It’s about Tim that I want to speak to you, 
Lena,” he said simply. 

“Tim Halligan?” Lena didn’t know what else 
to say. 


S3 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

‘‘Exactly. Tim Halligan.’’ Father Bernard 
compelled her to return his glance. 

“It’s not me that’s drivin’ him to drink,” she 
protested, turning away. 

“Then, what is it?” 

“A poor girl can’t help it if a man takes to 
bad ways.” 

“Couldn’t she try to keep him in good ways ?” 

“Some might, but I ain’t that kind. Besides, 
I’d not give a snap for a man I had to be holdin’ 
up like.” 

Father Bernard looked at her, and pushed on 
to a sudden advantage. “Do you care for Tim, 
Lena?” 

The girl’s eyes filled with unexpected tears. 
“’Twas different before he taken to drink.” 

“Yet you drove him to it.” 

She tossed her head. “Your Reverence has 
no idea how he was givin’ laws to me; this one I 
shouldn’t speak to, and that one I mustn’t look 
at.” 

“And you were willing to let him go wrong 
for that?” 

“I couldn’t help it,” she said stubbornly. 

“Did you never have a thought of his mother ?” 
Here the father made a mistake, as the look in 
Lena’s eyes at once assured him. 

“She ain’t got a good word for me.” 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

you saved Tim from his bad ways, she’d 
have nothing but praise for you.” 

‘‘Not her. She’d begin sayin’ I wasn’t good 
enough for him.” 

“So you will let him go on drinking 

Lena was silent for a moment. At last she 
said again: “I don’t care about a man I got to 
hold up.” 

“My child, there is no one strong enough to 
stand alone.” 

The girl’s face softened under the spell of the 
priest’s persuasive voice. 

“I don’t suppose Tim would listen to me,” 
she said with affected indifference. 

“Try him.” 

“He’d be wantin’ me to stop even talkin’ to 
the customers.” 

“Do you blame him?” 

She laughed, and Father Bernard knew he 
had gained his point. He had discovered some- 
thing ver^ likeable in Lena besides, a strength 
of nature and depth of feeling that he had not 
suspected, and he understood the struggle that 
she had had between her love for Tim and her 
own instinctive ideas of manhood. Lena felt the 
sympathetic understanding. It was the first 
time she had ever been really liked by an older 
person — the first time, indeed, that she had ever 
55 


Father Bernard’s Parish 


given her attention to one — and she paid a very 
genuine tribute to the good priest when she said 
as he took his leave: ‘‘Fll be cornin’ to mass 
some Sunday mornin’ soon.” 

Yet Father Bernard went out not altogether 
quiet in his mind. His zeal for Tim’s redemption 
having achieved its end, it occurred to him sud- 
denly that he had not arranged an entirely safe fu- 
ture for Lena. ‘‘Still, the boy has a good heart,” 
he argued. “He would be kind to her, which is 
something — and she loves him.” He sighed again, 
however, thinking how difficult it was to adjust 
the affairs of his parish with consummate wisdom. 

Lena saw Tim on the street that night; he 
stood glowering on the corner, waiting for her 
to pass. She had seen him there twice lately, 
but had taken no notice of him, and he had been 
ostentatious in his indifference to her. That 
night, though, she had put on her white lace 
dress and a piece of yellow ribbon that was her 
pride. She stopped just a moment before she 
crossed the street, and cast a sidewise glance at 
the big man standing with a sort of lounging 
grace upon the corner. 

“So that’s you, is it?” 

“You know it’s me,” Tim replied coldly. 

“It’s been so long since I seen you that I 
wasn’t sure.” 

S6 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

“You seen me last night, and the night be- 
fore.” 

“How do you know that ?” 

“I was standin’ on this same corner when you 
went by with that fool of a new butcher that 
you ought to be ashamed to speak to, and him 
cuttin’ the trade from under your own father.” 

“He asked me to walk, and you wasn’t here, 
so I went with him,” said Lena. 

“Would you have gone with me if I had been 
here?” 

She laughed. “He ain’t swagger like you, 
Tim.” 

“Don’t you be handin’ me any sof sodder,” 
Tim said, turning away. It was evident, though, 
that the compliment pleased him. 

She looked up at him from beneath her dark 
lashes and waited for him to continue the con- 
versation. 

“Say, why can’t you leave me be?” he ex- 
claimed at last. “You drove me to the devil, 
and now why can’t you let me stay there?” 

“What makes you come back to stand on the 
corner?” she asked. 

“You know why I come back.” 

“Ain’t you goin’ to take me for a walk?” 
asked Lena. 

“No, I ain’t.” 


57 


Father Bernard’s Parish 


‘‘Then ril leave you, for here’s Mr. Donnelly 
cornin’ up the street.” 

This was too much for Tim; he gave an angry 
exclamation and, seizing Lena, steered her trium- 
phantly past her new admirer. 

Lena loved the strength of Tim’s arm. “I 
been missin’ you,” she said, looking up into his 
overcast face. 

“Do you mean that .^” he asked. 

“I mean it when you’re sober,” she replied. 

“I’d never be drinkin’ if it wasn’t for you,” 
he said bitterly. 

“What did I do ?” she asked. 

“You know what you done, and what you 
said.” 

“And you believed me?” 

“Oh, yes, I believed you all right. You don’t 
care if you make a feller half crazy.” 

“Was you half crazy, Tim?” 

“You know I was that night at Coney Is- 
land.” 

“Couldn’t you see I was just teasin’ you ?” 

“ But how can I tell, Lena ? ” 

“Seems like you ought to be used to me by 
this time.” 

“I can’t never get used to you. It most drives 
me wild just to go into Zukerman’s and see you 
goin’ on with all the customers.” 

58 , 


Father Bernard’s Parish 


‘‘Don^t you know it's money in my pocket 
to keep the customers happy?" 

‘‘Is that all you do it for?" 

“Sure! What do I care for them when I’m 
lovin’ you ? ’’ 

Tim slipped an arm around her waist at that, 
and they turned into a cross-street. They came 
to rest at last on the steps of Father Bernard’s 
church, where Lena had promised to go to mass 
some Sunday morning, and a summer moon 
crept above the opposite sky-line of houses to 
put the street-lamps to shame with its pervad- 
ing silver light. 


59 


CHAPTER V 


T IM’S reform was immediate, but his mother, 
in her joy, was not aware that it was effected 
by Lena, the unmannerly and unesteemed, and 
that its permanence depended upon the fluctua- 
tions of her passionate nature. Mrs. Halligan 
had never spared language in setting forth her 
disapproval of Lena, and Tim had gathered that 
it would be as well if his sentiments toward the 
girl were not forced upon his mother’s attention. 
She knew, of course, that he frequented Lena’s so- 
ciety, but that was nothing unusual in the social 
life of the neighborhood, and gave her no alarm. 
That Lena should be an influence in her son’s 
life, however, was an idea of which Mrs. Halligan 
had not conceived. Meanwhile, she was happy 
in Tim’s return to sobriety, and confident as to 
its cause. 

‘Ht’s nothin’ but me prayers that’s done it, 
Annie,” she said. 

Annie believed in the power of prayer, yet it 
was on the tip of her tongue to tell her mother 
that Lena Schramin had wrought the miracle, 
and it did not occur to her that Lena should be 
6o 


Father Bernard’s Parish 


considered as the agent of divine grace. She 
recognized her influence upon Tim, though, as 
a force with whose workings she was quite un- 
familiar. 

‘‘Father Bernard, as likely as not, has been 
makin’ a prayer for me boy also. I had a feelin’, 
when I was tellin’ him me troubles, that he would 
say a word for me to the Virgin,” Mrs. Halligan 
went on, smiling. She would have lost con- 
fidence in the priest had she known that upon 
this occasion, it was the divinity of the human 
he had entreated. 

“The father was talkin’ of ye, Annie, and 
askin’ me whether ye was sure about goin’ into 
the convent.” 

“Oh, I’m sure, all right,” said Annie confi- 
dently. 

“That’s what I told him, and he was thinkin’ 
maybe ye’d be after gettin’ married instead, 
but I told him about Oscar runnin’ after ye with 
presents, and how it done him no good.” 

“You should not boast about poor Oscar,” 
said Annie. 

“Sure, I’m not boastin’ of him, but it’s as well 
to speak of him under the circumstances.” 

Annie couldn’t help feeling the force of this 
assertion, and she was silent. 

“There’s no great happiness in the married 
6i 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

life, is there, mother?’’ she asked after a mo- 
ment. 

Nothin’ permanent,” said Mrs. Halligan. 
not say that, for a time, things doesn’t go 
on pleasant enough, but ye’d better believe that’s 
not what lasts.” 

‘'And even if it did last, it would be nothing 
to the joy of consecration to the church,” said 
Annie reverently. 

Mrs. Halligan looked at her with pride. “Ye’ve 
got a callin’ straight from heaven!” she ex- 
claimed, and Annie felt that it was so, suspect- 
ing no depths in her girlish heart from which op- 
posing forces might arise. 

“I’ll go to the drug-store now and get the 
medicine for your cold,” she said. 

“It’s from that kitchen where I be workin’,” 
Mrs. Halligan explained with a martyr-like air. 
It was her second week at the boarding-house, 
but though her services as dinner cook were 
highly valued and well paid, she could find nothing 
to approve in the situation, since her pride had 
suffered in gaining it through Mrs. Zukerman’s 
recommendation. The cold which she had now 
contracted she attributed to certain conditions in 
the new kitchen, and she endured it with grim sat- 
isfaction, considering it as evidence that the favor 
conferred by the bake-shop lady was dubious. 

62 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

Mr. Donnelly came in as Annie left, and Mrs. 
Halligan welcomed him heartily, for novelty lent 
great interest to his society. Besides, she had 
done him a good turn that day, and was anxious 
to tell him about it. 

‘‘How’s business.?” she asked. 

“Well, I’m not complaining,” he replied 
guardedly. “Reuben Donnelly is not one to 
complain. I can’t expect to outstrip competition 
at this season of the year,” he went on; “but 
though I myself may be a trifle discouraged, I 
dare say there’s some thinks my success has been 
something wonderful in the history of the meat 
trade.” 

“I don’t suppose a customer requirin’ a ten- 
pound roast three times a week, not speakin’ of 
chops and steaks, would offend ye, though,” Mrs. 
Halligan remarked. 

Donnelly smiled broadly. “I might arrange to 
take her on,” he admitted. 

“It’s the lady I’m cookin’ for. She’s been one 
of Schramin’s regulars, too, but she’s done with 
him for his poor meat and his ugly ways, and I 
says to her one day, I says: ‘Ye should be tryin’ 
Donnelly, his meats is lovely,’ and the long and 
the short of it is, she’s to look in on ye to-morrow, 
sayin’ that Mrs. Halligan sent her, and ye are 
to treat her good.” 


63 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

Donnelly beamed. ‘‘That was the act of a 
friend,” he said feelingly. 

“And now, speaking in confidence, of course, 
I don’t mind disclosing to you that this customer 
you speak of will mean a great deal to me, Mrs. 
Halligan. Some think Fve been imprudent to 
start in at the slack season, but a start is a start 
any time you make it, and I’m proud to say 
I’m sensible of the favor you done me, madam.” 

Mrs. Halligan was well pleased that she had 
been of so much assistance. 

“Ain’t this dreadful news comes from Europe 
in the papers?” she asked, launching into the 
subject that had absorbed her thoughts all day, 
for that was the July of Austria’s fateful ulti- 
matum. 

“Looks like war to me,” said Donnelly, cheer- 
fully knowing. 

“Sure it’s war,” Mrs. Halligan agreed, but 
her face and voice were full of concern — her 
husband had been killed in a skirmish in India. 
“Think of the poor boys that’ll have to march 
up to the guns!” she said sadly. 

“Yes, and there’s the widows and orphans 
left a burden on the public,” Donnelly put in 
with a businesslike air. 

Mrs. Halligan resented this, as well she might, 
after her long career of self-respecting indepen- 
64 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

dence. ‘‘Sure the public is gettin’ thin supportin’ 
’em,” she said with sarcasm. 

“Oh, come now,” said Donnelly, “you know 
a lot of ’em just depend on charity.” 

“Faith, I don’t know, for I’ve seen no charity 
cornin’ me own way, and I’d have nothin’ to do 
with it, if it did. As for the widders, they’re as 
able to take care of themselves and the childer 
as the men, and most of them are better off than 
they was before.” 

“Then the war will be nothing but a blessing 
to ’em,” said Donnelly, laughing. 

“Ah, the war!” Mrs. Halligan exclaimed, 
taking up her thought where she had left it. 
“There’s nothin’ but desolation and sorrer to 
come out of it. I was readin’ where it says Eng- 
land and France is goin’ into it if Russia does, 
and Germany and Italy is holdin’ Austria by the 
hand. Wirra ! It’ll be a fearful war!” 

“You can’t believe all what you read in these 
New York papers; they’re just working this up 
for a sensation,” Donnelly remarked. 

“Then ye think it’s goin’ to be somethin’ like 
the usual scrappin’ down in the place they call 
the Balkans?” 

“Can’t tell just yet,” said Donnelly pom- 
pously. 

“England will have to call on the Irish to do 

65 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

the fightin’ as usual!” Mrs. Halligan exclaimed 
proudly. 

‘‘Have you got any relations over there?” he 
asked. 

“I’ve me brother’s six sons, but two of them 
is in British Columbia, and me first cousin’s 
boys, one of which is just come to this country 
last year. But there’s more left than I’d like 
to see killed,” she finished anxiously. 

“Well, for myself, I don’t approve of shedding 
blood. I may say it fills me with aversion,” 
said Donnelly. 

“That’s strange sentiments for a butcher,” 
Mrs. Halligan commented. 

He laughed. “Well, of course, for purposes 
of food is another matter, but this business of 
shooting men down is opposed to my ideas of 
what’s right.” 

“It do seem wrong when you think about it,” 
she agreed; “but there’s times, Mr. Donnelly, 
when there’s no kind of arguin’ can get ye around 
a fight.” 

“That’s the old way of looking at things,” he 
admitted, “and I may be criticised for being 
ahead of my time, but I tell you one thing, Reu- 
ben Donnelly is not a fighting man. I say it 
boastfully, Mrs. Halligan.” 

“Then you wouldn’t ’list for a war ?” 

66 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

“Feeling as I do, I couldn’t consistently do 
such a thing/’ 

‘^S’pose ye was drafted,” Mrs. Halligan sug- 
gested, ‘‘would ye run?” 

“Fd evade such an order, certainly,” he said 
with dignity. 

“Ye may be right, Mr. Donnelly, and it’s a 
pity the rulers of all the countries can’t agree 
with ye.” 

“Yes, the world would be greatly benefited 
if those in high places could take in some of the 
advanced ideas,” he replied. 

“Sure!” said Mrs. Halligan. “And yet, bein’ 
in the army, as I was with me old man, I can’t 
help likin’ to see a feller shot down every now 
and then, when the occasion requires.” 

Mr. Donnelly was somewhat shocked at this 
speech, and tried to show his landlady the wrong 
to mankind of such a state of mind. She fol- 
lowed his reasoning, but held to her preferences, 
and at last, wearying of the discussion, they 
rambled on to talk of other things. Soon Don- 
nelly mentioned Lena Schramin, for she had be- 
come a favorite topic of conversation with him. 

“That young lady is exerting a peculiar in- 
flu’nce on me,” he declared. 

“It’s nothin’ for good. I’ll be bound,” said 
Mrs. Halligan. . 


67 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

‘‘I can’t say as yet,” he answered, shaking his 
head solemnly, ‘‘but, you mark my words. I’m 
affecting her just the same.” 

“Yes, and the man as gets her is got trouble,” 
the old woman said darkly. 

“Not if he knows how to set about taming her,” 
Donnelly asserted, the conviction of power for 
the task speaking in his tone and manner. “Of 
course, a young fellow like your son, now, would 
not stand a showing in such a game,” he added. 

“Tim is not askin’ for it,” said Mrs. Halligan 
quickly. 

“Oh, I hear different from that,” Donnelly 
replied. “They tell me she’s his girl.” 

“Who telled ye.^” Mrs. Halligan asked, fixing 
him with so severe an eye that he felt obliged 
to abandon generalities and name his infor- 
mant. 

“That little humpbacked boy of the cobbler’s 
mentioned it, I believe. But perhaps I’m telling 
secrets,” he said, not unwilling to put a spoke 
in Tim’s wheel. 

“Secrets!” Mrs. Halligan exclaimed scorn- 
fully. “That’s all a big story, and Harry Veinig 
should be ashamed to be sayin’ such a thing 
about Tim.” 

“It’s a story, is it.'^” said Donnelly, laughing. 
His manner, however, suggested that he knew 
68 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

very much more of Tim’s affairs than Mrs. Hal- 
ligan did herself. 

The idea disturbed her, and when Tim came 
in, she began an investigation. 

^‘I’ve been bearin’ that Lena Schramin is yer 
girl." 

‘‘Who told you that ?” The young man spoke 
with assumed nonchalance. 

“Mr. Donnelly had it of Harry Veinig.” 

“Why can’t the kid keep his mouth shut!" 

“Is it true?" she asked. 

“You ought to ask Lena.” 

“I’m askin’ ye,” she said pointedly. 

He hesitated a moment too long in his re- 
sponse, and his hesitation revealed his sentiments 
very convincingly. 

“And is this what I raised ye for!” his mother 
cried out. 

He looked uncomfortable and avoided her 
gaze as she continued: “I been workin’ the skin 
off me hands gettin’ food for the insides of ye, 
and clothes for the outsides, and now ye’re after 
gettin’ yerself married to a low kind of a girl like 
Lena Schramin.” 

“Say, don’t call Lena no names,” said Tim 
quickly. “She’s made me quit the drink,” he 
volunteered. 

Mrs. Halligan looked at her son with a feeling 

69 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

of bitterness he could never understand. ‘‘So, 
she done it !” 

“Yes, and Fm goin’ to keep my word about it, 
too. Ain’t you glad, mother.^” he asked, with 
the old boyish assumption of her love and sym- 
pathy. 

Mrs. Halligan felt a lump in her throat. “Fm 
glad ye’ve quit the drink,” she managed to say. 
“But didn’t yer mother’s prayers have no in- 
flu’nce on ye, Tim ?” 

Tim hung his head and could say nothing. 
He, too, was suddenly gripped by the throat in 
the silence that followed. 

“I thought you’d like Lena for gettin’ me 
sober,” he said after a moment. 

“Like her! Maybe one of these days she’ll 
know how much I like her!” Mrs. Halligan 
clattered the dishes about in a way that was 
not customary with her. 

Tim looked up, not sure of his mother’s mean- 
ing and only dimly aware of the hurt that he had 
inflicted, while poor Mrs. Halligan moved about 
her kitchen with a heavy and rebellious heart. 
It was hard for her to feel that Lena Schramin 
had done that which had been impossible to her 
own unselfish devotion, and that, through her 
son, she was now dependent upon the girl’s ca- 
price. 


70 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

Once outside in the passage Tim thought 
only of his meeting with Lena, and he ran quickly 
down the steps, the elasticity of his youth re- 
bounding after the long hours of toil. Lena was 
waiting for him, standing at her door and look- 
ing discontentedly down the street. Tim came 
up close to the stoop and leaned on the railing 
waiting for her to turn. So they stood for some 
time, and at last he said quite casually: ^‘Who 
you lookin’ for?” 

This brought Lena around fast enough. ‘T 
thought you’d never come,” she said. 

‘^My mother was talkin’ to me.” 

She looked at him quickly, but said nothing. 

‘‘You off?” Tim inquired. 

“Yes, walked ofF. Old Zukey’s dippy if she 
thinks I’m goin’ to stay after six o’clock.” 

“What you want to do?” he asked. 

“It’s too hot to live,” she said wearily, for she 
felt spiritless and inert. 

“Say, what’s the matter?” said Tim, struck 
by her unusual manner and tone. He had found 
Lena to be a creature of moods, but with this 
one he was not familiar. 

“I wish I never was born!” she exclaimed. 

“Say, let’s get to a movie,” Tim suggested. 

“Get there by yourself, then,” said Lena; “I’m 
goin’ to the park.” She started oflF as she spoke, 

71 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

and Tim had to take several long strides before 
he could overtake her. 

“What makes you want to go to the park?” 
he asked as he went along at her side. 

“Fd like to get away from ev’ry human bein’ 
in this town,” said Lena fiercely. 

“You won’t get far from me if I can help my- 
self!” Tim exclaimed, and he took hold of her 
in the proprietary manner into which he had 
lately fallen. She leaned against his supporting 
arm with a weary sigh of satisfaction. She didn’t 
want to get away from Tim, and, though she 
said nothing, he knew it better than she could 
have told him. They walked along in silence 
down all the length of the block — ^youth and 
love — past the long line of deserted houses, 
through the paved monotony of the cross street, 
to the green bourn of the park, where in summer 
the smell of the freshly cut grass hangs upon the 
air, and where even the lives of the poor may 
find, for the hour, some charm of setting. 

“Fd like to have a house right in the middle 
of this park,” said Lena as they sauntered by 
the rippling expanse of the reservoir. 

“You’d be back on the avenue before you had 
lived in it a day.” 

“Not if you was in it, Tim.” 

“Sure, Fll be there, and don’t you forget it,” 
72 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

said Tim, and he leaned down and kissed her, 
a privilege which he was seldom accorded. 

Lena laughed a little. ‘T don’t know what’s 
makin’ me act so foolish to-night,” she said. 

“You needn’t to beg my pardon. I’m on the job 
all right,” Tim assured her. “Speakin’ about 
that little house — ” he began. 

“I didn’t say a little one; I was thinkin’ of 
some of them Newport cottages you see the 
pictures of in the papers.” 

“You wasn’t thinkin’ of me in one of them,” 
said Tim. “Lena, ain’t you goin’ to say when 
pretty soon?” he asked rather shyly, for she did 
not often permit him to broach the subject of 
their marriage. 

She shook her head, and yet there was a dreamy 
look in her eyes, had he but seen them. “You’re 
not makin’ enough a week,” she said. 

“Is that all that’s keepin’ you back ?” he asked 
eagerly. 

“That, and bein’ my own boss,” Lena replied, 
but as they came into a patch of shadow, she 
threw her head back upon his arm, and again 
he stooped and kissed her. 

“It must be the stars makin’ me so dippy,” 
she said, and her gaze wandered past Tim to the 
heavens. “Some class to them stars!” she said 
meditatively. 


73 


Father Bernard’s Parish 


Tim’s eyes did not follow hers; he was not 
interested in the stars. At last her gaze came 
back to his and she smiled. She was strangely 
and quietly happy in his embrace. Such moments 
were rare between them, for their intercourse 
was frequently stormy. Tim held her all the 
closer for the thought, and drank the deeper of 
her love. 

‘‘I’m sure dippy,” she said again, and ran 
away from him at last. She didn’t encourage 
him to repeat his caresses, and he knew better 
than to force them upon her. 

“This is bigger than the lake, ain’t it?” she 
said, leaning against the fence around the res- 
ervoir, and looking across to the wooded drive 
along the Fifth Avenue side. 

“It makes me think of what my mother is 
always talkin’ about the old country,” said Tim. 

“Ireland?” 

“Sure! The lakes of Killarney.” 

“Ireland’s nothin’ to Poland,” Lena said with 
a toss of her head. 

“What do you know about Poland?” 

“I was born there,” she answered quickly. 

“You was nothin’ but a baby.” 

“That’s all you have to be to be born in Poland,” 
she said, laughing. “I don’t know why I kind er 
like Poland; I don’t remember nothin’ of it, 
74 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

nothin’ but playin’ there and scrappin’ with my 
brother.” 

‘‘Your brother?” 

“Yes, he’s there now. I wish I was; I’d put 
on trousers, and go into the army all right.” 

“And leave me?” Tim asked. 

“I’d leave any man that wasn’t a fighter.” 

Tim laughed with a pleasant feeling of security. 
He was a fighter himself of established reputa- 
tion. “It looks like some scrappin’ is goin’ to 
take place across the water,” he said. 

“But England and Russia’ll be on the same 
side!” Lena exclaimed. “If you was a German, 
Tim, I’d give you your walkin’ papers.” 

“I’m not English,” said Tim doggedly. 

“Yes, but you’d stick to England, wouldn’t 
you ?” 

“My father was in the British army,” he said 
reflectively. “What makes you so strong for 
Russia?” he asked. 

“There’s a sayin’ that Germany’s the worst 
enemy of Poland,” she answered, and there was 
about her the fire and spirit of a vivandiere. 

“I can’t make out why you care so,” Tim said 
incredulously. 

She shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know 
myself,” she said, her voice falling again into its 
normal tone. 


75 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

“My mother says Poland is not a country,” 
said Tim with a puzzled air. 

^‘That’s because your mother wants to make 
you turn against me.” 

^‘There’s no one can do that!” he exclaimed. 

The darkness concealed Lena’s satisfied smile. 
‘'She thinks I am not good enough for you.” 

“She doesn’t know you,” said Tim, as many a 
lover has said before him. 

“She’s not achin’ to know me no better, but 
you can tell her it’s the same way my father feels 
about you.” 

“You don’t care what he thinks, do you, Lena ?” 
Tim asked uneasily. 

“I have to care,” she answered, and there was 
that in her manner which made him aware that 
old Schramin counted with Lena, and must with 
him. He brooded over the idea for some time 
in silence while Lena went on to other thoughts. 

“When did you go to confession last?” she 
asked after a time. 

Tim didn’t remember. Lena had not been 
herself for many a long day. 

“I’m goin’ to Father Bernard soon,” she said 
decidedly, whether influenced by the soothing 
spell of the night, or by the potent philter of love 
that pervaded her undisciplined young heart, it 
were difficult to tell. 


76 


Father Bernard’s Parish 


‘*My mother says you’re not a Catholic,” Tim 
remarked. 

“Why ain’t I, when Father Bernard prepared 
me for confirmation ? ” 

“She says your father ain’t. Is he?” 

“He’s somethin’ else, whatever they are in 
Poland, but I used to go to the Sunday-school 
with Annie, and I can say my beads as fast as 
you please. Father Bernard was talkin’ to me 
just the other day.” She announced it proudly. 
The priest had struck a responsive chord in Lena, 
and something that was line in her had begun to 
develop in that brief interview. “You ought to 
go to confession, Tim,” she said. 

Tim groaned. ‘‘ My mother and Annie are al- 
ways devilin’ the life out of me to get me into the 
box, and now it’s you!” he exclaimed. 

Lena laughed. “Seein’ Father Bernard set 
me to thinkin’ about it,” she said. “I told him 
I’m cornin’ to mass some mornin’, and I’ll take 
you with me.” 

“You’ll not go if you’re waitin’ for me,” Tim 
declared. 

“Strange you and Annie’s so different,” said 
Lena meditatively. 

“Sure, we’re different!” he exclaimed with 
confidence, and yet, after all, youth varies very 
little in its essentials. 


77 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

Annie, who had gone for the remedy for her 
mother’s cold, scarcely realized how long she was 
staying at the drug-store. There was a new clerk 
in the store — a tall, pleasant-faced young man 
who wore glasses. He smiled at Annie as she 
entered, for he had sold her a package of court- 
plaster the day before, and he thought her very 
pretty — as she was. 

^‘How is the finger?” he asked. 

‘Ht’s doing nicely,” she told him. 

Annie’s hands were soft and white, too soft 
and white when compared with her mother’s, 
but then she was young, and did not understand 
all the sacrifices that had gone to produce her 
small refinements. George Wagner, the drug- 
store clerk, admired the soft hands, and Annie’s 
ladylike manners seemed to him very attractive. 
He had not seen her in her own surroundings, 
for his position and his education raised him above 
the life of the street and the neighboring shops, 
but he found her gentle and pretty, and the 
combination was distinctly agreeable against the 
highly polished background of the drug-store. 

‘'How did you cut that ?” he asked, and leaned 
over the counter to look at Annie’s injury. 

“Oh, it isn’t worth bothering about,” she said, 
dropping her hand quickly and blushing a little 
at the young man’s evident interest. He was 

78 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

very different from Oscar Hauser, and even Mr. 
Donnelly, with his fine education, seemed scarcely 
up to his standard. Altogether, he gave Annie 
a new idea of masculine possibilities, though she 
was too inexperienced to realize how entirely 
he pleased her. 

‘‘Doesn’t kitty look lazy.?” she said, stroking 
the cat that lay on top of the glass case. 

“How do you like the ribbon I tied on him?” 
Wagner inquired. 

“Did you put that on? ” she asked, wondering 
that he should have thought of it. 

“I think red would be prettier than pale blue,” 
she said critically. 

“Prettier for a brunette, but you see he’s a 
blonde.” 

Annie remembered that she had a pale-blue 
ribbon at her throat, and she wondered whether 
he would think it becoming. Was she, after all, 
a blonde — ^with brown hair and a fair complexion ? 
The question was quite absorbing. 

Suddenly the cat got tired of being stroked, 
and set his teeth in Annie’s hand. Wagner was 
almost as quick, however, for he caught hold of 
the animal’s jaws and made him loosen his hold, 
and in so doing his sinewy fingers must needs 
touch Annie’s. The moment of contact gave them 
both a pleasurable sensation. 

79 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

‘‘Did he hurt you?’’ Wagner asked anxiously. 

“Oh, no,” said Annie, but the small print of 
teeth was reddening on her wrist. 

“We must put something on that!” he ex- 
claimed and, stepping quickly to the back of the 
store, he brought out a bottle of lotion. 

“Will it burn ?” she asked timidly. 

“I think not,” he answered. Then, uncertain 
whether he might be permitted to bathe the hand 
himself, he gave her the bottle and watched her 
as she applied the remedy. 

“It didn’t burn, did it?” he asked, smiling 
down at her as she returned the bottle. 

Annie shook her head. “Thank you ever so 
much, you are so kind,” she said, looking up into 
his interesting glasses for just a moment. She 
wondered if she should offer to pay for the lotion, 
but decided not to do so. 

“You live near here, don’t you?” he asked. 

“In this same block.” 

“On one of the cross-streets?” 

“No, on the avenue,” she answered, innocent 
of the undesirability of her place of residence. 

He was not a New Yorker, however, and didn’t 
lay much stress upon locality. “ Dreadfully 
noisy, isn’t it?” he asked, as an elevated car 
went by without. “I don’t seem to be able to 
get used to it.” 


8o 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

It was Annie’s turn to ask questions. ‘‘Haven’t 
you ever lived near the elevated before?” 

“I should think not! I’m from a little, old 
town in Pennsylvania, as quiet as a wheat-field.” 

“That must be lovely,” she said. 

“Most people find it rather too quiet, but I 
believe you would think it was lovely,” he an- 
swered, smiling. _ 

She wanted to ask him why he thought she 
would like it if most people didn’t, but she was 
afraid of seeming too egotistic, so she merely 
inquired how he liked New York. 

“It’s a pretty lonesome town when you don’t 
know anybody,” he replied. 

“It seems odd to call it lonesome when there 
are so many people around all the time,” she 
said. 

“But what do they matter if you don’t even 
know their names!” he exclaimed. She smiled, 
but made no answer, and in the little pause he 
remembered that he didn’t know her name. He 
saw that she had remembered it, too, and he said: 
“I believe I could guess yours, or at least the 
first one.” 

“Try it.” 

He thought a moment, but nothing seemed to 
suit after all. “I thought it was Violet, but I’m 
not so sure.” 


8i 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

She laughed, and wished she had such a beau- 
tiful name. “It’s Annie Halligan,” she told him. 

“Annie does sound more sensible,” he com- 
mented; ‘‘and you know the saying, ‘A rose by 
any other name would smell as sweet.’ I suppose 
it’s the same with a violet.” 

“Oh, that’s very pretty,” said Annie, to whom 
the quotation bore the charm of freshness. 

He smiled, pleased at having gotten ofF so well 
turned a compliment. 

“I’m not at all fancy, though,” said Annie. 

“I saw that right away. I don’t like fancy 
things or people myself,” said Wagner. 

“I like everything very plain,” she told him, 
with a momentary thought of the garb she ex- 
pected soon to assume. She glanced at the mirror 
across the store as she spoke, and couldn’t help 
wondering how she would look with all her pretty 
curls gone. It was an unworthy thought, she was 
aware of that, and her face showed the com- 
punction that she felt. 

“What made you look sad just then.?” he 
asked, daring a sudden intimacy of tone and 
speech. 

“Did I look sad.?” Annie asked, pleased to 
find how closely he had watched her. It did not 
occur to her to resent the question asked in such 
a kindly tone. She knew when people were being 
82 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

rude, of course, but she did not know that the 
conversational rights of a stranger are limited; 
her training had not made her aware of such 
shades. 

George was glad she was not angry. He was 
dimly conscious that he ought not to have asked 
her about her thoughts, and perhaps that con- 
sciousness marked just the difference in their 
rearing. He came from simple people, but gentle 
ones, while Annie was the single delicate blossom 
upon her sturdy ancestral tree. All that, how- 
ever, made no difference to them whatsoever. 
Why should it have done so They were both 
young, and both liked ‘‘everything very plain.” 
A thousand differing agencies behind them had 
brought them to that same conclusion, or rather 
to a certain similarity of temperament which it 
typified, but, coupled with the physical attrac- 
tions that each possessed, it was basis enough 
upon which to build. Yet neither considered 
building at all in these pleasant moments of un- 
expected companionship. 

“I thought, maybe, there might be sickness 
at home,” he told her. 

“Oh, no; mother has only a cold, but I did 
come for something for her. Fm not sad, really, 
when I look that way, only serious, I suppose.” 

“Well, there’s enough that’s serious going on 

83 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

now,” said George Have you seen the eve- 
ning paper ?” 

‘‘No. Is there more talk about the war?” 

“Well, I should say! Just look at this!” he 
exclaimed, and spread out the sheet on the 
counter between them. 

“What’s Belgium got to do with it?” said 
Annie as she read the head-lines to which he 
called her attention. 

“I want to know!” said George. 

“Fm thankful we can’t get mixed up in it 
over here,” Annie declared. 

George shook his head. “There’s no telling 
what might happen if Europe gets to fighting,” 
he said ominously. 

“Oh, but wouldn’t you hate to go to war?” 
Annie asked. 

“I just would,” he answered. “But if you 
have to, you have to, and that’s all there is to 
it. Maybe by that time the women will get the 
vote, and they’ll come along too. How’s that ?” 
he asked, smiling. 

“It wouldn’t suit me,” said Annie. 

“No, I didn’t think you were that kind,” he 
told her. 

“How do you know so much about me?” she 
asked, looking up at him in a way she had cer- 
tainly not learned at the convent. 

84 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

don’t know as much as I’d like to,” George 
answered ardently. 

Annie became a little flustered at this, for the 
reflection came to her with sudden forcefulness 
that she was going into the church. 

'‘I don’t have young men callers,” she said 
rather stiffly. 

‘‘Oh, don’t you!” he exclaimed. He had not 
been thinking very definitely of a call, but, of 
course, he would like to go to see her. “Maybe, 
when you know me better, you’ll let me come,” 
he said. 

“No, I — I don’t think so,” said Annie. 

He looked at her curiously, and was rather 
surprised to note her embarrassment. Annie 
was wondering how she should tell him about 
the convent, but, not thinking of any way to do 
so, after an awkward but brief silence, she said 
good night and moved toward the door. He 
didn’t understand the change that had come 
over her but, somehow, he felt that she was not 
displeased with him. Perhaps she had no place 
in which to receive callers. 

“Did you want something for your mother. 
Miss Annie he asked. 

She turned and looked at him as he stood there, 
smiling and leaning against the counter, and as 
she turned she remembered what she had come 
8S 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

for. “How stupid of me! I do want something 
for mother’s cold.” 

‘‘Something for a cold?” He crossed the store 
quickly and opened a glass case. 

“I don’t know what you could have thought 
of me, just talking along this way and forgetting 
what I came for.” 

“I didn’t think of it at all; or, that is, I think 
you are very good, for I get dreadfully lonely in 
here.” 

“But I wouldn’t have come in just to talk,” 
she explained. 

“I know you wouldn’t, but I wish you would, 
just the same,” he said, and they didn’t look at 
each other, for their eyes were running over the 
remedies for colds. 

“Here’s something fine,” he said at last. 

“Is it expensive?” Annie asked hesitatingly. 

“It’s twenty-five, but here’s another just as 
good for ten.” 

“Are you sure it’s just as good ?” 

“Rather. This thing cured me once.” 

“Thank you, I guess I’ll take that,” said An- 
nie, and opened her little pocketbook. “Good 
night, again!” she said when the purchase was 
concluded. 

“But you haven’t asked my name,” he said, 
coming round to her side. “Don’t you care to 
know it ?” 


86 


Father Bernard’s Parish 


‘‘Yes, I should like to know it very much.” 

“Then why didn’t you ask me?” 

“I thought you ought to tell me.” 

“Yes, I ought to have told you, but I wanted 
to see if you — oh, well, my name is George Wagner 
— not Richard — ” he said, smiling. 

“I didn’t say it was Richard,” she answered 
in surprise. 

At this he laughed heartily, and Annie, be- 
coming offended, walked to the door. 

“Please forgive me,” he begged, following her 
quickly. “I was only joking. Richard Wagner 
was a great musician or something of the kind, 
you know.” 

“Was he ?” said Annie coldly. 

“You’ll come in again, won’t you?” he asked. 

“I suppose so,” she answered. She didn’t 
like being laughed at by a strange young man. 

“I wish you wouldn’t be so offended with me. 
I really didn’t mean anything and, do you know, 
you’re the only person I’ve had a nice talk with 
since I’ve been in New York.” 

There was a lonesome sound in the boy’s voice, 
and Annie looked up and smiled sympathetically, 
though she couldn’t have told just why she did so. 

“I knew you couldn’t be hard-hearted for 
long!” he exclaimed with satisfaction. 

“I guess I didn’t quite understand what you 
were joking about,” she said. 

87 


Father Bernard’s Parish 


‘‘No wonder, Tm an awfully stupid joker.’’ 

“Oh, no, it was I. I don’t catch on to jokes 
very quickly. Good night, Mr. Wagner.” 

“Couldn’t you call me George.? It would 
sound so much more natural.” 

Annie hesitated. “I don’t believe I could. 
It wouldn’t seem just right. I’ll say Mr. George, 
though, if you’d like me to.” 

“No, I guess you needn’t call me anything. 
Don’t you call any young men by their names ?” 

“I call Oscar by his name but, of course, he’s 
different.” 

“How is he different?” 

“I’ve known him so long.” 

“Who is he?” Wagner demanded. 

“He’s a very fine young man, and he’s in the 
delicatessen.” 

“Oh!” said Wagner shortly. He felt an um 
accountable distaste for the young man in the 
delicatessen. 

“Good night!” said Annie again. 

“Good night!” said Wagner, and he stayed 
outside and watched her until she disappeared 
through her own doorway. 


88 


CHAPTER VI 


H arry VEINIG never intended to talk 
about Tim, but, as a matter of fact, he 
talked about very little else, when he talked at 
all, for the young expressman was the hero whom 
his boyish fancy found most engaging. The hero 
was severe with his admirer, however, on some 
points, and Harry knew it was an offense of the 
first magnitude to discuss Tim or Tim’s affairs. 
He did it, though, more frequently than he 
realized, and had quite forgotten the statement 
he had made to Mr. Donnelly. Furthermore, 
he had no forebodings of evil after his conversa- 
tion with Father Bernard, so that he was not 
prepared for Tim’s anger when first they met, 
after the young man’s interview with his mother. 
Harry saw him coming down the street next 
evening, and waited for him with an illumined 
face, but Tim paid no attention to him save to 
look more forbidding as he passed. 

‘‘Say, what’s the matter.^” Harry called. 

Tim gave no answer, and Harry scuttled along 
behind him as fast as he could. 

“Say, Tim!” he called again, and his voice 
quavered a little. 


89 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

Tim turned around after a step or two. ‘‘Well, 
what do you want ?” 

Harry looked at him anxiously. This time he 
would have been glad to know that Tim was 
drunk, but his eye was practised in such manners, 
and he saw that he could not comfort himself 
with that illusion. 

“Why don’t you speak to me, Tim ?” he asked. 

“I guess IVe spoken to you a little too often,” 
the young man said with scorn. 

Harry’s face quivered, and catching Tim by 
the sleeve, he dragged him out of the thorough- 
fare to the iron grating in front of old Schramin’s 
window. 

“What did I do?” he demanded. 

“You needn’t try to fool me,” said Tim roughly. 
“You know you was gassin’ about me to Don- 
nelly.” 

“ It’s a lie, Tim. You know it’s a lie. I wouldn’t 
do it, ’cause I know you wouldn’t like it.” 

“Didn’t you never open your head about 
me?” 

Harry hesitated a moment. “Hardly ever, but 
maybe I was tellin’ Father Bernard about you one 
day.” 

“Father Bernard! So that’s another one! 
I s’pose you’ve been goin’ all ’round the block 
talkin’ about me.” 


90 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

Harry said nothing, and Tim, feeling the dig- 
nity of his silence, modified his tone and manner 
a trifle. ‘‘Father Bernard is the worst one you 
could have picked out; now, he’ll be gettin’ at 
me about my ways.” 

“We didn’t talk about you much,” said Harry, 
aware that the storm was spending itself. 

Tim thought a moment. “Do you s’pose he 
told Donnelly what you said ?” 

“Not him.” 

“Then what made Donnelly say^you told him 
Lena was my girl 

An awful conviction of sin descended upon 
Harry. “Oh, Tim, I did tell him — I forgot,” 
he stammered. 

“You little blabber!” said Tim in disgust. 

“It was when you was off on a drunk,” Harry 
went on miserably. “He come in the shop one 
night, and was talkin’ about Lena, and I up and 
told him. I thought it would maybe make him 
leave her alone.” 

“Why don’t you mind your own business for 
a change?” Tim inquired with cutting sarcasm. 

“You ain’t goin’ to stop havin’ me ’round, are 
you?” Harry asked timidly. 

“If I wasn’t so durned easy, I guess I would 
pretty quick,” said Tim. Harry breathed again, 
and determined to ignore his recent indiscretions. 

91 


Father Bernard’s Parish 


‘'Where are you goin’ now, Tim?’’ he asked, 
edging back into the current of street life again. 

“I guess I’ll get some soda-water before I do 
anything else; I’m dog-gone thirsty,” said Tim, 
and headed for the brightly lighted confectioner’s 
store across the street. 

Harry stopped and looked after him, and Tim 
turned from the curbstone. “What you waitin’ 
for?” 

“You want me to come?” 

“You’re the biggest little fool! Have I got 
to write you a invitation?” 

Harry laughed and joined his friend at once. 
“Let’s get strawberry,” he suggested, knowing 
that the selection would be left to him. 

He liked nothing better than to go to the con- 
fectioner’s with Tim, for besides the enjoyment 
afforded by the delectable drinks, his friend’s 
lordly manner was a source of great pleasure to 
him. Tim threw out his soda-water check and 
gave his order like a prince, or so thought Harry, 
whose admiration extended to the young man’s 
way of pushing back his hat, and the easy, loung- 
ing attitude in which he half reclined upon the 
counter. Such occasions were pleasant events 
in Harry’s career. Perhaps they were almost 
as pleasant to Tim himself, who, to use his own 
words, “couldn’t help feelin’ sof’ for the little 
92 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

kid.” He didn’t object, either, to the incense 
which Harry burned so freely before him, and 
so, for one reason or another, the two were well 
content to be together. 

“Go to the drug-store and get me a box of 
cigarettes,” said Tim, putting down his glass 
and handing Harry some money. 

Harry slipped from his stool and started olF, 
quite as a matter of course, for it was his privilege 
to fetch and carry for Tim. In the drug-store he 
encountered George Wagner, who couldn’t sell 
him cigarettes because he was under age. 

“You don’t s’pose they’re for me, do you?” 
Harry exclaimed. “The other feller that used to 
be in here sold ’em to me when Tim wanted ’em.” 

“Tim will have to come for them himself this 
trip,” said Wagner pleasantly. 

“You better not send Tim no such message,” 
Harry warned him. 

“Well, who is Tim ?” Wagner leaned over the 
counter with a friendly look at the little fellow’s 
troubled face. 

“He’s Tim Halligan.” 

“Tim Halligan! Is that — er — Miss Annie’s 
brother?” 

Harry had peculiar methods of arriving at 
conclusions, but he seldom made mistakes, and 
he looked at George Wagner now somewhat 
93 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

speculatively as he said: ‘‘Annie’s goin’ into the 
convent.” 

“You mean she’s going to school there.” 

“No, I don’t. I mean she’s goin’ in.” 

“Oh, come now, you don’t know what you 
are talking about,” Wagner protested. 

Harry made no reply to this. “Are you 
goin’ to give me the cigarettes?” he asked after 
a moment, but George Wagner was not thinking 
of the cigarettes. 

“Who told you she was going into a convent ?” 
he inquired earnestly. 

At that moment Tim appeared in the door- 
way. “I’m expectin’ you back next week,” he 
called. 

“He won’t sell ’em to me,” said Harry scorn- 
fully. 

“Sorry, but I can’t,” said Wagner. “You 
see, the law ” 

“Oh, all right!” said Tim, but Harry was 
angry. “He’s settin’ up to Annie,” he informed 
his companion when they were out on the street 
again. 

“What are you givin’ us!” said Tim. 

“Well, he is. He called her ‘Miss Annie,’ 
and he asked me wasn’t you her brother.” 

“That’s great settin’ up,” Tim remarked. 
“Say, there’s Lena!” he exclaimed suddenly. 

94 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

Harry saw her with a sinking of the heart, and 
was prepared for the next speech. 

‘^You’d better run along home now, kid.” 

‘‘Why don’t you like me as well as you do 
Lena?” he demanded. . 

“Wait till you get a girl and you’ll find out,” 
said Tim, and then, remembering that Harry was 
different from most little chaps, he put a kindly 
hand on the poor child’s heavy shoulder. The 
boy was not aware of the blank places in his 
future, and was made exceedingly happy by the 
rough and unusual caress. Tim’s remark, how- 
ever, had set him to thinking, and he went 
home and asked his father if he had ever had 
a girl. 

Veinig, seated at his bench beneath a flickering 
gas jet, put down the shoe that he was half- 
soling and looked at his son, but the innocence 
of the child’s face turned the edge of his cynicism. 

‘‘Who’s been puttin’ you up to talk about fool- 
ishness?” he asked, taking up his work again. 

“I wouldn’t have a girl for five dollars,” said 
Harry thoughtfully. His father gave a short, 
hard laugh. “You wouldn’t have five dollars 
if you had a girl,” he said, and sunk into un- 
pleasant reflection while Harry went off to bed. 

Lena and Tim wandered through Arcadia, or 
at least they did for a time, until they quarrelled 
95 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

as they leaned over a railing and peered into the 
cavernous excavation where foundations for an 
apartment-house were being laid. Their stopping 
to see how the work was getting on had been at 
Lena’s suggestion, and suddenly Tim grew sus- 
picious. 

‘‘Who’s on this job, Eyetalians or a mixture?” 
he asked. 

“Eyetalians,” Lena responded at once. 

“So, that’s it!” he said. 

She caught his meaning, but said: “What’s 
it ?” very curtly. 

“What do you care how they’re gettin’ on ? I 
never knew you to look at nothin’ of the kind 
before,” he complained. 

“Why don’t you say you think I’m stuck on 
the whole bunch that’s workin’ here ? There’re 
twenty of ’em,” she said scornfully. 

“How do you know there’re twenty?” 

“I know it because the boss told me.” Lena’s 
voice expressed the anger that the darkness kept 
him from seeing in her face. 

He looked at her, glum and miserable. “Is 
the boss an Eyetalian, too?” 

“Yes, he is.” 

“I’d just as soon talk to a monkey,” Tim re- 
marked. 

Lena made no reply. 

96 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

s’pose you think he’s good-lookin’?” 

‘‘I s’pose I do.” 

“Does he come to Zukerman’s for lunch?” 

“Where else do you expect him to get his 
lunch ? He ain’t the kind that carries a bucket.” 

“I could twist his neck for him,” said Tim 
ferociously. 

“You’d have a hard time tryin’,” Lena re- 
marked. “He’s some man, I can tell you.” 

Francisco Madeo was indeed a person of varied 
charms. His heavy curls made a fit setting for 
features voluptuously classic, and the touch of 
vivid color in the tie or handkerchief that he 
wore loosely knotted about his throat well be- 
came the rich tints of his skin and the somnolent 
splendor of his eyes. There was, besides, a grace 
about Francisco’s manner, un-American and cap- 
tivating, and Lena found his presence at the lunch 
hour a very agreeable event in her day. 

She came upon him at first quite unexpectedly 
as he sat in the back of the room, one elbow upon 
the table, and watched her movements through 
his half-shut eyes. When his gaze had attracted 
hers, his smile expressed a childlike proffer of 
friendship, and conveyed admiration as well. 

Lena stopped by his side. “I didn’t see you.” 

“No, but I see you.” His manner made the 

97 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

speech deferential, and she was pleased to be 
gracious. Mr. Donnelly, with the same remark, 
would have secured for himself a salutary snub. 

‘‘ril bring you a big cup because I kept you 
waiting,’’ she told him. 

“I wait some more; you feenish with those 
other,” he said. 

She shrugged her shoulders and smiled, quite 
understanding the compliment that his sugges- 
tion implied. 

‘‘You looka like Italian girl,” he said quickly. 

She threw him a glance of scorn. 

“No, you don’ lika ? All the American don’ 
lika da poor Italian.” 

The matter seemed to be one of casual regret 
to him merely, for Lena had managed to make 
him aware that her objection to Italians did not 
extend to the individual. 

She did not glance his way again, and Mrs. 
Zukerman herself finally demanded his order 
and filled it, upbraiding her assistant in passing 
for her inattention. Lena made no answer, but 
she arranged to be at the door when Francisco 
went out. 

“For why you no come back?” he inquired. 

“Didn’t you get your lunch ?” 

“Oh, yes, I gotta da lunch.” 

“Then you ought to be satisfied.” 

98 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

He smiled brilliantly and shook his head, 
‘‘No, I maka da keek.” 

“You’d better take your kick to Mrs. Zuker- 
man,” said Lena, smiling also. 

“You wanta her to fire me ?” he asked. “Now, 
leesten — to-morrow I come soon.” 

“No, come late,” said Lena, and their eyes 
met for a moment. 

“The boss don’t wait on me?” he stipulated. 

“No,” said Lena. 

“And nobody else but you ?” 

“No.” 

“All right, I come to-morrow — late,” and he 
did. 

He came every day that week, and their 
acquaintance had progressed with a stride pe- 
culiarly Latin by the time it met with Tim’s 
recognition. It had not taken Francisco long to 
discover Tim’s existence. On Wednesday he in- 
vited Lena to walk on the avenue, but she would 
not go with him. On Thursday he suggested the 
moving-pictures, and the suggestion was declined. 
He looked at her for a moment from beneath 
his lashes, as was his custom at times. 

“Wha’s da name of your feller?” he asked 
after some contemplation. 

Lena returned his look with a glance as veiled 
as his own. “That’s sayin’ I’ve got one.” 

99 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

“ You gotta one all right. Fm a crazie not to 
think it right away; but next week you walka 
weeth me.” 

‘‘I don’t suppose Fll have anything to say 
about it,” Lena remarked with sarcasm. 

He laughed. “No, I don’t suppose. But say, 
don’ you lika that ? Don’ you lika to walk weeth 
me a leetle — for a change ? ” 

The idea did seem to hold interest for her, 
all the more so, perhaps, since Tim could be 
entirely counted upon to furnish excitement un- 
der such conditions. Now Lena would not have 
given up Tim for all the Italians that ever came 
out of Italy, yet the more she meditated upon 
Francisco’s proposition, the better did it fall in 
with her inclination. She hesitated, however, 
before accepting the invitation, for Tim had 
shown himself a very desperate character in his 
resentment of her methods of amusement, and 
she knew it might be unwise to aggravate him 
further; she was just the least degree afraid of 
what he might do. Yet Francisco had a charm 
of his own to which she was far from being in- 
sensible. 

Their rapidly developing acquaintance had 
already been commented on by the frequenters 
of the lunch-room, though nobody dared to joke 
Lena about it; she didn’t encourage the cus- 


lOO 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

tomers in the discussion of her affairs. Donnelly, 
being a newcomer, however, attacked the subject 
with great show of raillery. 

“Where’s young Italy?” he inquired one day, 
glancing around the room with a broad smile as 
Lena put down his cup. 

She looked at him contemptuously, but said 
nothing. 

“He ain’t gone back on us, I hope? There’s 
some of us would be uncommonly sorry for 
that.” 

“You needn’t worry; he ain’t gone back on 
you none,” said Lena. “He don’t know you from 
Mr. Veinig.” 

Veinig laughed, aware that his appearance did 
not commend itself to Mr. Donnelly’s fancy. 

Francisco came late — later than usual. He 
had but ten minutes to spare for his lunch and 
his lady, but he could put in a great deal, in one 
way and another, in ten minutes, and he found 
Lena more responsive than usual. Indeed, it 
had been on the very night before that she had 
quarrelled with Tim, and she now considered the 
annexation of Francisco as expedient as it was 
agreeable. 

“I see you las’ night,” he told her. 

“What, did you come over this side for last 
night ?” 


lOI 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

“What you theenk 

“I was thinkin’ about you last night,” said 
Lena after a moment. 

“What you theenk abouta me?” He leaned 
over and looked into her face, but she wouldn’t 
tell him. 

“Say, why you taka your feller to look at da 
place where I work my gang ?” 

Lena laughed. “He’s mad about you.” 

“So. Ain’t I mad abouta him?” 

“You needn’t be. We had a fuss last night,” 
she told him. 

“Abouta me?” he demanded, but Lena would 
not answer. 

“Tim’s crazy,” she said, tossing her head. 

“No, he ain’t crazie. He gotta da good sense; 
he know I am try to cuta him out.” 

“Do you want to cut him out ?” she inquired. 

“You ask me?” He laughed. “Say, walka 
out weeth me to-night?” 

“All right,” said Lena, and Francisco went 
back to his work overjoyed, her promise in his 
heart, and a substantial sandwich in his hand. 


102 


CHAPTER VII 



OUNG WAGNER stopped at Zukerman’s 


i next day for lunch. His doing so was quite 
accidental, and he was not very much pleased 
with the place. “It’s low class,” he said to him- 
self, yet reflected that the prices were low also. 
That was a point to be considered, for he sent 
home as much money as he could, and his income 
was not princely. He didn’t like Lena’s air as 
she slammed down the dishes and flirted with 
the customers. To be sure, she paid not the 
smallest attention to him, demanding his order 
in a perfectly stolid manner and placing it in 
front of him upon her return trip with an un- 
concerned, sidewise service, the while she con- 
versed with young Esposito at the table behind. 
She spilled the buttermilk that George had or- 
dered and she sent the French rolls spinning over 
the table as she put them down. She paid no 
heed to George’s exclamation, though, nor did 
she glance his way again. 

Mrs. Zukerman was more anxious that he should 
be pleased. “Does your buttermilk suit you?” 
she asked, coming by the table. 


103 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

‘‘What I got of it,” said George shortly. 

“Ach, Lena’s always up to her jokes already,” 
Mrs. Zukerman remarked, smiling. 

“You’ll be flirtin’ with her yourself like all 
the rest when you are here a week,” she declared, 
with an effort to placate this new customer. 

George’s sense of courtesy forced him to reply 
to this, although he did not like Mrs. Zukerman’s 
familiarity. “I usually go to my boarding-house 
for lunch,” he said with dignity. 

“Ain’t you the young man in the drug-store?” 
she questioned. He admitted that he was, and 
felt some surprise to find himself known. He 
had not yet considered the big town as divided 
into its innumerable small districts of which 
each member is a component part. He had 
thought it merely one vast aggregation of obscure 
toilers like himself. Even the gay people and 
the rich people had not yet caught his attention, 
for George was of a serious turn of mind, and his 
thought had been paralyzed by the overwhelming 
number of petty lives by which he was encom- 
passed. Therefore, that Mrs. Zukerman, whom 
he had never seen before, should be able to place 
him at once caused him to marvel greatly and 
gave him, too, a pleasant, homelike feeling that 
warmed his heart. 

“How did you know me ?” he asked. 

104 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

She laughed. ‘‘That’s what I says when Fm 
here at first. But, of course, seein’ a high-class 
young man like yourself, I knowed already he 
wouldn’t be in nothin’ but a drug-store.” 

George couldn’t help feeling gratified that she 
should have recognized the diflFerence between 
himself and the men seated at the other tables, 
but he was too polite to let this be apparent. 
“You seem to have all the customers you want,” 
he said pleasantly. 

“So far,” Mrs. Zukerman replied. The war 
was making her feel very uneasy as to the pop- 
ularity of her establishment. “The President is 
quite right already about bein’ nootral. It’s 
foolish to be takin’ sides so far across the water 
in a quarrel no one don’t know the long and 
short of,” she said, somewhat irrelevantly, George 
thought, for he did not perceive the connection 
in her mind. 

“You are German, though, aren’t you?” he 
asked. 

“German-American,” she amended. 

Veinig, coming in just then, laughed rudely 
as he passed her. “Cut that out! You’re either 
German or you’re not German, now!” he cried 
as he slipped into the seat by the side of George. 

“And what says the President of the United 
States, I want to know, Mr. Veinig,” she replied 
lOS 


Father Bernard’s Parish 


in an injured tone. ‘‘ ‘Strict nootral/ he says, 
and don’t you forget it.” 

“That’s right. Neutral’s the word for me,” 
Donnelly called out from the rear. 

“Neutral !” Veinig said with scorn. “Deutsch- 
land iiber alles!” he cried suddenly, all of his 
pent-up intensity speaking in his voice and in 
the involuntary gesture that he made. He was 
one of the small, dark Germans, his eyes quick 
and intelligent, his mouth firm and sharply lined. 
He spoke seldom and his outburst now was lis- 
tened to by all the room. 

“Shouldn’t wonder if the Kaiser got to Paris 
just like he says!” some one exclaimed. 

“And what’s the matter with the Czar.?” 
cried Lena. She was carrying a cup of coffee to 
Veinig, and she assumed the natural leadership 
of the room, her femininity flaming with a theat- 
rical sort of vividness in the excitement of the 
moment. 

“The Czar’s all right!” Donnelly replied in 
the hope of currying favor with her. Lena’s 
charm seemed almost a tangible thing, so trans- 
forming was its effect. It illumined her strongly 
marked face, it even lent a grace to her showy 
and somewhat careless dress. She did not turn in 
Donnelly’s direction, and he glanced about him 
rather uneasily to see if his sudden departure 
io6 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

from strict neutrality had been observed. No- 
body was thinking of him, though; every one 
was looking at Lena. 

‘^What’s to keep the Czar from gettin’ to 
Berlin like he says she demanded. 

'^^Der Kaiser!’’ Veinig almost shouted. “Hoch 
der Kaiser!” he called. 

Mrs. Zukerman, in the back of the store, re- 
peated the words in a low tone. ‘^Hoch der 
Kaiser!” 

Suddenly there was a crash and a cry. Lena 
had dropped the cup of coffee she was about to 
place before Veinig. 

He got up in a fury — the hot liquid was trick- 
ling down his neck. ‘H’ll have you arrested!” 
he cried. 

‘‘See if you can,” said Lena. “You were 
jumpin’ around so that you knocked it out of 
my hand.” 

Mrs. Zukerman came hurrying to the front. 
“You’ll have to pay for the cup, Lena Schramin,” 
she called. 

“It’s not broke,” said Lena. 

“The cup!” Veinig exclaimed. “And what’s 
to pay for my skin that’s scalded till it’s about 
to peel off ? ” 

“Ach, Mr. Veinig, your skin ought not to get 
peeled so easy,” Mrs. Zukerman said, attempting 
107 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

a facetious tone. She stooped heavily and picked 
up the cup and saucer. “Sure, it’s good ware. 
Made in Germany,” she said approvingly, and 
showed Veinig the mark on the bottom of each 
piece. 

Veinig grunted. “That girl is a demon!” he 
exclaimed. 

“Ach, jah,” Mrs. Zukerman assented, and 
called to Lena to bring Mr. Veinig another cup 
of coffee. 

“I don’t pay for*two,” he stipulated. 

“Ach, no,” said Mrs. Zukerman. 

“What do you keep her for.?” he demanded. 

“Why you ask me for when the place is full 
up ev’ry day?” she replied. 

“Fools!” said Veinig, and relapsed into his 
usual sullen silence. 

“Did you get splashed any?” Mrs. Zukerman 
asked of George. 

“I don’t think so,” he answered, still flourish- 
ing his handkerchief about. 

“Is my collar splashed?” he asked, trying to 
look over his shoulder. 

“It’s all right,” she assured him, and, having 
added a cake to Veinig’s order, she went back 
to her work, muttering to herself about Lena 
as she went. 

George looked across the table at Veinig, and 
io8 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

at last ventured a question: “Is that girl Rus- 
sian?’’ 

“Search me,” said Veinig. “She’s more like 
a Chinee.” 

“I’m a Pole, if you want to know,” Lena called 
from the next table. 

Veinig paid no attention to her. He went on 
eating, taking vicious bites and gulps in a way 
that annoyed George. 

“I’m fightin’ for the Czar,” Lena continued, 
“and you better believe I ain’t no cold-blooded 
nootral, either,” she called out, at which there 
was a general laugh. 

“I ain’t goin’ to ask for hot drinks while this 
war lasts,” one lively youth volunteered. 

George and Veinig maintained silence until 
Lena had disappeared into the kitchen. Then 
George said in a low tone: “I thought the Poles 
were with Germany.” 

“Some of ’em are fools enough to believe what 
the Czar’s promisin’ them,” Veinig answered. 
“Old Schramin came from Warsaw.” 

“Was she ever there?” George asked. 

“She? She was born there — in a pigsty, no 
doubt,” said Veinig shortly. 

“You wouldn’t think she’d be so enthusiastic 
about the Czar,” George remarked. 

“That’s a woman, always talkin’ about what 
109 


Father Bernard’s Parish 


they don’t understand, and squealin’ over things 
they don’t feel — anything to make themselves 
conspicuous,” said Veinig. 

‘‘You don’t care for them, eh?” 

“No,” Veinig answered and finished his rusk. 
“Leave ’em alone, or you’ll come to a bad end,” 
he added, looking at George gloomily. “They’ll 
probably not leave you alone, though.” 

“Well, they haven’t made a rush for me yet,” 
the young man said, with an effort to give the 
conversation a lighter tone. 

“That’s because they haven’t got wind of you 
yet. You’re in the drug-store, ain’t you?” 

“How did you know?” asked George. This 
second identification seemed to argue something 
peculiar in his appearance. 

Veinig shrugged his shoulders and offered no 
explanation. “You seen my boy Harry last 
night?” he asked after a pause. 

George had no idea who the boy Harry might 
be, but suddenly an expression in Veinig’s face 
stirred his remembrance. “Oh, you mean the 
little — ” He stopped with embarrassment not 
customary among those who spoke to Veinig 
of his son. 

“The little humpback,” Veinig finished. 
“That’s him.” 

“Seems a nice little chap,” George commented, 
no 


Father Bernard’s Parish 


“Strange how he managed it/’ Veinig said, 
more to himself than to his companion. 

George did not think it necessary to reply, 
and in the pause that followed, the shutting of 
the screen door attracted their attention. It 
was Annie, coming in with a pitcher. Veinig 
saw her first and a shade passed over his face. 
He liked Annie; her sweet, pure youth usually 
softened his manner, and made his remarks less 
caustic. 

“It’s a nice day, Mr. Veinig,” she said as she 
passed close beside his chair. George Wagner 
turned around at her voice. 

“Oh, good morning,” she said in some con- 
sternation. She had not expected to see him, 
though, to be sure, she had not expected to see 
Veinig, either. 

“What are you doin’ in here, Annie?” Veinig 
asked. 

“I just ran in for some buttermilk,” she replied. 

“You might have chosen a better time,” he 
said with severity. 

“My mother has just come in hot and tired, 
Mr. Veinig,” she said, yet stood uncertainly by 
the table. 

“Let me get the buttermilk for you,” said 
George, rising quickly. “You can wait outside 
if you’d rather.” 


Ill 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

“Leave her be!’’ Veinig exclaimed so per- 
emptorily that George sat down again. 

Annie moved away in some confusion. She 
had thought the lunch hour was about over, and 
her mother was anxious for the buttermilk. 
She went right through to the kitchen after that, 
without so much as casting another glance at 
the tables, and Mrs. Zukerman filled her pitcher 
at once. 

“I thought everybody would be gone by this 
time,” Annie said, in explanation of her coming 
at such an hour. 

“They’re all takin’ to settin’ longer since this 
war’s been goin’ on,” Mrs. Zukerman replied. 

“Mr. Veinig was so rude to me. It seemed as 
though he thought I had just come in to see the 
men,” Annie complained. 

“Don’t pay no attention to Veinig,” Mrs. 
Zukerman advised. “Lena is but already poured 
a cup of coffee down his back.” 

“Oh, was it hot ?” 

“Sure. That is for why Lena done it.” 

“Oh, Mrs. Zukerman, it couldn’t have been 
on purpose.” 

Mrs. Zukerman laughed. “You don’t know 
Lena Schramin, Annie. You can tell your mother 
I seen the lady where I gotten her the place and 
I says: ^How is Mrs. Halligan makin’ out with 


112 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

the work ?’ and she says: ‘Pretty good, if she can 
only keep up.’ ” 

“My mother is not one to give out without a 
reason,” Annie answered proudly. “ But there is 
an awful draught in that kitchen, Mrs. Zukerman. 
My mother has caught a dreadful cold there.” 

“She has not had a good word to throw at it 
since I gotten her the place,” Mrs. Zukerman 
declared. 

“Of course, we are very much obliged to you 
for recommending her,” Annie said. 

“That’s the first time I hear about it,” Mrs. 
Zukerman replied. Still, she was gratified that 
Annie should have acknowledged the favor, and 
she went with the girl down the crowded room 
to the door. 

George Wagner was still sitting at his table, 
but so was Veinig, and Annie did not look at 
them. George watched her, and Veinig watched 
George. Finally the younger man turned and 
encountered the piercing gaze. He resented 
Veinig’s implied criticism, and he stared back 
at him, with considerable dignity and poise. 
Veinig was made aware that he had offended, 
and he liked the young fellow for being able to 
assert himself. 

“She’s for the church,” he said, motioning 
with his head toward Annie at the door. 

113 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

‘‘Do you believe that’s right?” George asked, 
accepting the amend that Veinig’s more affable 
manner made. 

“Anything’s better than livin’ in the world.” 

“You are a Catholic?” 

Veinig’s expression was one of unutterable 
scorn. He did not condescend to reply to 'the 
question. 

“It’s an awful thing that a young girl like that 
should take religious vows before she knows 
what she’s giving up.” George tried to make 
his comment sound very impersonal. 

“You think it’s better to take marriage vows 
and break ’em ?” 

“I don’t know what you are driving at, but 
I don’t care for your remarks,” George said, 
and, rising, he got his hat from the rack above 
him. 

Veinig overtook him at the door. “What 
I’m drivin’ at, as you call it, is plain as day. If 
you find a woman tryin’ to live right, put her in 
a box and shut down the lid — it’s the only way 
she’ll keep so. In other words, leave Annie 
alone.” 

“When I want your advice, Mr. Veinig, I’ll 
ask for it,” George said, and he walked off down 
the street. 

Veinig stood mumbling to himself for a while 
114 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

and then he, too, went off, but toward the other 
end of the block. 

Annie saw George go by from the passage- 
way of the house in which was her mother’s 
apartment. The door was open, and the hall 
dark, so that ‘‘the girl with the pitcher” standing 
within, at the foot of the stairs, was not apt to 
attract the attention of the chance passer-by in 
the street. She rested her pitcher on the newel 
post and then deliberately turned and waited. 
The glimpse of George was brief but it was in- 
teresting. Even in that moment she noticed his 
long, peculiar step and an air distinctly better than 
that of the people with whom she associated. 

“It’s not his clothes — they are sort of old,” 
she reflected as she went on up the stairs. 

She was abstracted for some time, so that her 
mother at last grew quite impatient with her. 
“Sure, Annie, ye might as well be in the church 
and done with it, for all the comp’ny ye are to 
me at times,” she complained. “Here I’ve asked 
ye twice who was to Zukerman’s and ye don’t 
seem to know I’m talkin’. Don’t ye take no 
notice of the people around ye, child ?” 

“Oh, yes,” said Annie hurriedly. “I didn’t 
hear you.” 

“Ye was lookin’ right at me,” Mrs. Halligan 
declared. 

IIS 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

“There were a great many people there for 
lunch — men,” said Annie. “I really ought to 
have waited awhile.” 

Mrs. Halligan surveyed her daughter proudly. 
“It don’t hurt ’em to see a nice, tidy-lookin’ 
girl now and then,” she said. “That Lena 
Schramin is enough to give ’em all the blind 
staggers. Who was in there ?” 

“I saw Mr. Veinig,” Annie replied. 

“Nothin’ younger than Veinig?” 

“I believe Mr. Donnelly was there.” 

“Donnelly!” Mrs. Halligan exclaimed. “Shall 
I tell ye, now, what Donnelly says about ye?” 

“Oh, no, mother.” Annie spoke reprovingly. 

“Ain’t ye a wonder!” Mrs. Halligan com- 
mented. 

Annie felt a little uncomfortable at that. As 
a matter of fact, it required no effort for her to 
decline to hear Mr. Donnelly’s opinion of her. 
She knew, however, that she was not quite so 
indifferent in another direction. The knowledge 
made her realize that she ought to mention George 
Wagner to her mother, so she said, in a somewhat 
forced manner: “The new young man in the drug- 
store was sitting at Mr. Veinig’s table.” 

“Faith, he must be mighty common to be goin’ 
to Zukerman’s,” Mrs. Halligan remarked. 

“Oh, no. He’s very gentlemanly looking. I 

ii6 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

suppose, Zukerman’s being so near, he just ran 
in for convenience like,” said Annie. 

‘‘That’s the way with the boys. They’ve 
never a thought of keepin’ theirselves choice,” 
Mrs. Halligan complained. “In they goes to 
the first place that’s handy, without so much as 
thinkin’ whether or not it’s suitable to their con- 
ditions in life. Look at yer brother, now!” 
Annie felt that they had reached safe ground, for, 
when Tim was under discussion, Mrs. Halligan’s 
thought seldom wandered. 

“I raised Tim so careful — by hand, ye may say 
— and where is he now ? Coin’ with the riffraff of 
the streets and stuck on Lena Schramin. Per- 
haps she’s a German, for all I know.” 

“Lena’s a Pole,” said Annie. 

“And what is that ? Even an Eyetalian is 
somethin’ that people have heard about. Are 
they Germans, or are they not Germans ?” 

“Some are, and some are not, I think,” Annie 
explained. 

“That’s it, now,” cried her mother, ^‘neither 
the one thing nor the other. Hist ! Is that an 
extra.?” she cried, and ran to the front window 
to listen. Annie ran after her, and they both 
leaned out and strained their ears. 

“Can ye hear what the feller’s sayin’ ?” Mrs. 
Halligan asked. 


117 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

‘‘Something about the Crown Prince.” 

“Is he runnin’ forward or runnin’ back.?” 

“I can’t make out, but Lena’s buying a paper,” 
Annie reported. 

Mrs. Halligan drew in her head. “Just call 
to her and ask the question,” she begged. 

“She has gone in,” said Annie. 

“It’s just like her, bein’ so unaccommodatin’,” 
Mrs. Halligan exclaimed. “Ah, the English 
should send Lord Kitchener to the front. Me 
old man thought very high of him when he was 
servin’ in India. And, come to find out, he’s 
Irish, after all.” 

“Not Lord Kitchener, mother.” 

“Sure, isn’t he born in County Kerry.?” 

“That doesn’t make him Irish, though.” 

“Ay, but his great-grandmother come from 
Donegal. I had it from the second housemaid at 
the boardin’-house. Her own grandaunt is from 
the same town. It’s common talk there, she 
telled me.” 

“Even that wouldn’t make him very Irish.” 

“That’s all ye know, but the boys takes after 
their mothers, and it skips back into the great- 
grands.” 

“Yet you always said Tim was like my father.” 

“Poor Tim, I could never account for it,” said 
Mrs. Halligan. 

Ii8 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

‘‘It’s Strange that you should want England to 
win in this war, mother, and yet you hate her so.” 

“Faith, that’s not strange to one who’s ever 
had a husband. Sometimes me old man and me 
would have it hotter than hell.” 

“Oh, mother!” 

“Well, I’m just tellin’ ye. And yet, if any one 
would so much as say an unkind word about him. 
I’d tongue-lash ’em till they’re sore. He came 
upon me once dressin’ down a neighbor that was 
speakin’ against him, and he says: ‘Sure, and 
ye’re a helpmate any man would be proud of 
havin’.’ And that’s how it is with the Irish.” 

“If Tim were there now he’d be going to the 
war, I suppose,” said Annie. 

“Say nothin’ to Tim about it,” her mother 
exclaimed quickly. “I’ve had trials enough in me 
life without havin’ him brought home a corpse 
with the Victoria cross pinned on him to pass 
down to the children he is never had.” 

“Oh, mother, you make my blood run cold!” 
cried Annie. 

“It’ll do ye no harm with the sea rollin’ be- 
tween ye and trouble. If ye was in the old coun- 
try now ! They do say that the Kaiser is aimin’ 
straight for Ireland all the while. Faith, I’d 
hate to think of the Germans befoulin’ the pure 
waters of Killarney.” 

119 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

“You love Ireland, mother, don’t you?” 

“Sure, me childhood and me youth is left be- 
hind me there.” 

“Too bad you had to come over here.” 

Mrs. Halligan sighed. “It’s the necessity of 
crammin’ yerself with bread that makes all the 
trouble in this world.” She drained her glass of 
buttermilk at that and held it out to be refilled. 

Annie poured a glass for herself, also, and 
slipped a bit of ice into each. 

“It’s a warm day, all right,” said Mrs. Hal- 
ligan. 

“But the breeze is always good through this 
window,” said Annie. 

That was quite true. The clothes on the lines 
that stretched out to the pole beyond the fire- 
escape were flapping back and forth with a sound 
very pleasant on a midsummer day. 

“There’s few has so comfortable a home,” 
said Mrs. Halligan, and she looked out across 
the back yards, and then in at her tidy kitchen. 
Annie looked out, too, but she turned her eyes 
up to the bit of blue just showing above the 
houses. It was a pleasant, midday hour. Mrs. 
Halligan clinked the ice in her glass, and Annie’s 
eyes came back to her with a smile. 

“Tell me a story, mother, the kind you used 
to tell to Tim and me when we were small.” 


120 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

Mrs. Halligan sighed. ‘‘Faith, it’s been long 
since that day ! What put it into yer head to 
be askin’ for a story?” 

“I don’t know,” said Annie. And yet she had 
a strange idea that seeing George Wagner had 
had something to do with it. She had a notion 
she’d like to hear one of the odd old tales that 
her mother used to tell. 

“Tell me how the lakes of Killarney were 
made.” 

Mrs. Halligan’s eyes grew tender. She took 
another drink of the buttermilk and then began, 
as of old: 

“Well, there’s fairies in Ireland. Some people 
say there’s not, but there’s fairies in Ireland.” 


I2I 


CHAPTER VIII 

EORGE WAGNER could not put out of his 



Vj mind the information that Harry had im- 
parted about Annie. It seemed to him altogether 
preposterous that a young girl should go into a 
convent, and he thought that something should 
be done about it. He even looked askance at 
Father Bernard, who came in to make a purchase 
next day, for his Protestant training had made 
him suspicious of priests. 

‘‘Ten to one, he’s the person who has talked 
her into it,” he said to himself, and the father 
appeared to his fancy as a very mysterious and 
baneful influence abroad in the world. 

“You’ve just come here, haven’t you?” the 
priest asked pleasantly. 

“Yes,” said George, and his expression was 
severe. 

Father Bernard smiled, aware at once of the 
young man’s point of view. He liked George’s 
face, though, reading conscientiousness in its se- 
verity, so he was impelled to friendliness. 


122 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

“You’ll know us all in the neighborhood pretty- 
soon.” 

Wagner hesitated, and then said awkwardly: 
“I’m not a Catholic.” 

“I supposed not. Are you Methodist 

“No, my people go to the Presbyterian church 
at home.” 

“And you?” 

“I’m not a member of any.” 

Father Bernard shook his head. “That’s where 
we have the advantage of you — ^we are all mem- 
bers.” 

Everything that George thought of to reply 
seemed rude, and so he handed over in silence 
the neat little package he had made. 

“You ought to have some religious connec- 
tion in this great town,” Father Bernard said 
seriously. 

‘‘I could never be a Catholic,” the young man 
felt called upon to tell him. 

“Then you ought not to be one, yet I think 
a man should take some definite stand on re- 
ligion.” 

George began to like the priest in spite of 
himself. ‘‘But don’t you think all Protestants 
will go to hell?” he asked crudely. 

Father Bernard looked at the boy and smiled 
123 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

again — a very winning smile, that had in it both 
remembrance of youth and prescience of age. 
“If you’ll excuse me, I won’t answer that ques- 
tion,” he said. 

“I had him there,” thought George, but felt 
more friendly toward his new acquaintance. “It’s 
the way you urge young people to be priests 
— and — nuns — that’s seems awful to me,” he said 
after a moment. 

“Have you known of that’s being done?” 

George hesitated. “There’s a general impres- 
sion that it is done,” he asserted. 

“Will you take a piece of advice from a much 
older man ? Don’t form an opinion based upon 
a general impression — it’s not entirely fair.” 

“I don’t suppose it is always fair,” George 
admitted. “But how does a general impression 
get out ?” 

“Who can say ? It is one of those things that 
must be right, but generally are wrong.” The 
priest spoke so simply and with so much good 
sense, that George came very near agreeing with 
him, but saved himself in time by remembering 
that priests were said to be very plausible in their 
speech. “They can make you think black is 
white,” he told himself. Yet his expression had 
relaxed considerably by the time Father Bernard 
went out — a tribute to the man, at least, even 
124 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

though prejudice against his calling could not be 
so easily eradicated. 

Young Wagner’s horizon had been somewhat 
widened, however, for he perceived, though 
faintly, other stretches of earth and sky beyond 
the confines of his valley. He thought for some 
time of the priest and all that he stood for and, 
somehow, these new impressions seemed to group 
themselves around Annie Halligan, so that when 
she came in for stamps soon afterward it seemed 
strange to find her the same pretty little girl 
with whom he had had such pleasant talks. He 
tried to picture her as a nun, but her rounded 
contours did not assist his imagination. 

‘H’ve been hearing something about you,” he 
said, not getting the stamps as he should have 
done. 

‘‘What have you been hearing?” asked Annie, 
looking down at the marble floor. 

“Are you really going into a convent?” he 
asked. 

“Who told you that?” 

The question may have been significant of a 
subtle change in Annie’s mind, for she should 
have answered him at once. She knew that she 
should have done so, and she blushed in a soft, 
pink fashion that Wagner thought very beauti- 
ful. Annie had had no intention of coquetry, 
I2S 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

however, and she corrected her fault as soon as 
she was conscious of it. 

‘‘Yes, I am going in,’’ she said. 

Wagner didn’t know whether or not he might 
tell her how dreadful that seemed to him, and he 
was a trifle embarrassed at first. Then he said: 
“ What made you think of doing it ?” 

“Oh, I’ve always wanted to.” 

“But you are so young.” 

She smiled. “That doesn’t make any differ- 
ence.” 

“I couldn’t believe it when I first heard it, 
for you don’t seem that sort of girl,” he told 
her. 

“Well, I’m sorry if I haven’t seemed serious 
or religious,” she said. 

“Oh, it isn’t that!” he exclaimed quickly. 
“I know you are good enough in every way, 
but I thought nuns would be sort of sad and 
solemn.” 

She laughed. “I’m glad you are mistaken in 
that.” 

“I guess I’ve got a good many wrong ideas,” 
he admitted. “There was a priest in here awhile 
ago — a very thin man ” 

“Father Bernard — I met him up the street.” 

“Well, do you know, I couldn’t help liking 
that fellow.” 


126 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

‘‘I should think so!’’ she exclaimed. 

“Are there many priests like him?” he asked. 

Annie looked up in surprise. “Oh, the priests 
are all holy men,” she said. 

George would have liked to say there was a 
general impression to the contrary, but somehow 
it was not easy to voice his doubts to her. Then 
he remembered the advice recently given to him 
about general impressions, and he was not so 
sure of his old ideas on the subject. 

“You ought to hear Father Bernard read mass, 
it’s something lovely,” said Annie. 

“Won’t you let me go with you some time 
when I can get olF?” he asked, moved by a sud- 
den inspiration. 

“I’m afraid I couldn’t do that very well,” she 
replied with some embarrassment, “but I wish 
you would go.” 

“Do you ? Then I will,” said George. 

“Will you get me the stamps?” she asked in 
the pause that followed. 

“I looked for you yesterday, but you didn’t 
come in,” he complained as he opened the stamp- 
drawer. 

She hesitated. “Yes, I was in here for a minute, 
but you were out.” 

“It must have been at my lunch hour,” he 
said with real regret in his voice. 

127 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

“Did you go to Zukerman’s again ?” she asked 
shyly. 

“You mean that bakery place ? No. I don’t 
think I shall try that again, it seems to me sort 
of rowdy.” 

“Oh, no, Mrs. Zukerman is not at all like 
that.” 

“Well, no, not the old one, of course, but 
there’s a girl in there that’s something fierce.” 

“Lena doesn’t mean any harm,” said Annie. 
“She was an awful nice girl when she was small.” 

“Why, she’s older than you are.” 

“Yes, but she was always good to me. She 
looked out for me in the street, and she could 
fight better than most of the boys,” said Annie. 

“I believe you. I wouldn’t have thought you 
two were friends, though,” he said, somewhat 
annoyed at the matter-of-fact way in which 
Annie spoke of her association with Lena. 

“We don’t go together now very much,” she 
replied, “but I can’t help liking Lena, though, of 
course, we could not lead the same sort of life.” 

“Hers wouldn’t suit you, that’s one thing 
certain,” he declared with conviction. Then, 
reminded of Annie’s strange intent, he said: 
“Do you know I was a little offended the other 
night when you said I couldn’t call upon you?” 

“I was very sorry to seem rude,” said Annie. 

128 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

‘^You couldn’t seem that even if you tried, I’m 
sure,” he answered, ‘‘but I thought for a minute 
that you didn’t like me, and I was sort of dis- 
appointed.” 

“You understand it now, though, don’t you?” 
she asked. 

“Yes, but I think what you are going to do is 
dreadful, just the same.” 

“That’s because you are a Protestant.” 

“And that is one of the seven deadly sins, 
isn’t it?” he asked, smiling. 

“Well, of course, ours is the only true church,” 
she answered. ^ 

“Why is it?” he asked, and then was sorry 
that he had spoken in such a challenging, antag- 
onistic tone. 

Annie looked at him gently. “I wish I could 
explain it all to you, but I’m not good at that. 
You ought to talk to Father Bernard; he knows 
all about the church.” 

“You’d have lots more influence on me than 
Father Bernard,” he said. 

“I ? Oh, I really am a very poor talker,” she 
protested again. 

“I mean I think a good life is the best argu- 
ment there is for religion,” he explained. 

“Ah, then, he’s the very one for you after all. 
You see I’m just beginning my life,” she said 
129 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

with a suggestion of that real humility of spirit 
which she possessed in spite of her innocent 
pleasure in her own virtue. 

“It seems to me you’ve made a mighty good 
beginning,” said George. 

“I never was one to care about the world 
much,” she said with modest pride. 

“You have to care about the world if you live 
in it,” he objected. 

“Oh, yes, a little,” Annie admitted, and thought 
he had on such a gentlemanly looking tie, so 
much prettier than those dreadful things that 
Oscar Hauser wore. Poor Oscar! Why should 
she pitch on his neckties ? Tim’s were quite as 
gaudy, and Donnelly’s were atrocious. 

The conversation seemed to come to a natural 
end just there, and Annie moved to go. George 
came out from behind the counter and walked 
with her toward the door, but they stopped 
awhile as he called her attention to something in 
the show-case in the middle of the store, though 
he knew that he ought not to detain her. He 
regretted afterward that he had done so, but 
there is so much pleasure sometimes in the very 
things that we regret doing. 

“Now, please don’t come in again when I’m 
at lunch, for you know how much I want to see 
you,” he said. 


130 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

‘‘Do you 

“Of course, I do. Aren’t you the only real 
friend I have in New York?” 

“I wish I could be more like a real friend,” 
said Annie, “but you know how things are. Be- 
sides, Fm still studying at the convent up-town.” 

“What are you studying?” he asked at once. 

“Art embroidery and music.” 

“Fd love to hear you play,” he said, and it 
was all she could do to keep from asking him to 
come up to the flat and listen to her old cracked 
piano. Instead, she said: “Are you fond of mu- 
sic ?” 

“I should say! I want to take up the man- 
dolin, only I don’t have time for anything of the 
kind,” he informed her. 

Then they drifted very naturally into a dis- 
cussion of Wagner’s work and hours, even touch- 
ing cautiously upon his employer. He found it 
very pleasant to talk about his affairs to so in- 
terested a listener as Annie. As a matter of fact, 
they were very much absorbed in each other, 
and appeared so, though neither realized it until 
a customer came in. It was Lena Schramin, and 
she had taken in the situation before either 
Wagner or Annie realized that she was there. 

“Is that you, Lena?” Annie asked, turning 
rather quickly. 

131 


Father Bernard’s Parish 


Lena smiled, but said nothing. 

‘‘I was just getting some stamps.” 

‘‘You left them on the counter,” the new- 
comer remarked, for Annie was going without 
them. 

George Wagner picked them up and took them 
to her. “I didn’t mean to keep the stamps and 
the money, too,” he remarked, and Annie ex- 
claimed at her own forgetfulness. Then she went 
out, and Wagner returned to look after the wants 
of Lena, having already decided that he didn’t 
like her. He faced her across the counter with 
his most businesslike expression, but still she 
said nothing. 

“Can I do anything for you?” he asked, and 
she lifted her fathomless black eyes and looked 
at him with amusement. She was quite unlike 
anybody he had ever seen before, and he felt a 
sort of unreasonable antagonism to the type. 

“Annie is a very pretty girl,” she said at 
length. 

Wagner didn’t know just what to reply to this, 
so he looked very dignified, but he could feel an 
uncomfortable color rising from the line of his 
collar. 

“It’s unusual to see her talkin’ to a young 
man,” Lena volunteered. 

“Did you want to get something?” he asked 
coldly. 


132 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

‘‘Yes, I want a package of chewin’-gum, but 
I mainly ran in to have a look at you.” 

“Well, you’ve had it?” said George. 

Lena laughed. “Don’t you like to be looked 
at?” 

“I can’t say that I’m used to it.” 

“Why didn’t you look back?” 

“I did,” he said. 

“But not like you was lookin’ at Annie,” she 
told him teasingly. An expression of irritation 
crossed Wagner’s face. “I wish you would leave 
Miss Halligan alone.” 

“Miss Halligan!” Lena repeated, smiling. 

“What sort of chewing-gum do you want?” 
he asked, and opened the case where it was 
kept. 

“You needn’t be in a hurry about it,” said 
Lena. 

At that he leaned back against the shelf that 
ran along the wall, and folded his arms with an 
air of unconcern. 

“I suppose you know Annie’s intentions,” she 
said. 

He looked out of the window and appeared not 
to hear. 

“But I never have no patience with those 
ideas,” Lena went on. 

“See here, what are you trying to say?” 
Wagner exclaimed suddenly. “There’s nothing 
133 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

SO very remarkable in Miss Halligan’s going into 
a drug-store.” 

“I wasn’t thinkin’ of her goin’ in, it’s her stayin’ 
in that’s out of the common.” 

George smiled loftily. ‘'Other people stay in 
longer than is strictly necessary for buying chew- 
ing-gum,” he reminded her. 

“There’s only one person in New York who’d 
think there was anything in my talkin’ to you — 
that’s Tim Halligan, and I’ve quarrelled with 
him.” 

“What did you quarrel about?” he asked, 
hoping to turn her attention from himself. 

“If it hadn’t been one thing, it would have 
been another,” she said. “Tim is awful hot- 
headed, but Annie’s different, and as for what 
I’m tryin’ to say, I just want you to know that 
I’m on to you two, that’s all.” 

“I’d like to know what you are talking about, 
I’m sure.” 

“That’s all right, and I guess you understand 
that I could break it all up by speakin’ to the 
priest.” 

“You’d have difficulty in finding anything to 
say to him.” George spoke uneasily, for he 
realized that he didn’t want the priest to tell 
Annie that she must not talk to him any more. 

“I could tell him enough if I wanted to.” 

134 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

‘‘But you don’t want to, do you said George 
in a more conciliatory tone. 

“What do you think? I’ll take the chewin’- 
gum now.” She laughed as he looked at her un- 
certainly. “I’ll thank you for the chewin’-gum,” 
she said again, and put her nickel on the counter. 

George didn’t notice the nickel, for he really 
was annoyed at her suggestion of telling the 
priest. “I hope you won’t do anything so un- 
pleasant to Miss Halligan,” he said. 

“Not to speak of its bein’ annoyin’ to you,” 
Lena added. 

“Will you ?” Wagner asked earnestly. 

“That depends,” she answered. 

“Depends on what ?” 

“On how pretty you behave to me.” 

“Oh, if that’s all,” he said, smiling, and he got 
out a remarkably fine package of chewing-gum. 

“But that isn’t all,” Lena said from the door. 
“It depends on how I feel, and sometimes I’m 
real spiteful.” 

He could well believe her. “Let me know 
when you feel the spitefulness coming on,” he 
begged. 

“I can’t always tell; it comes on me sudden,” 
she explained, and ran out, laughing, leaving 
Wagner very doubtful as to the course she meant 
to pursue. 

I3S 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

Annie went home as fast as she could, for she 
didn’t want to encounter Lena again. She 
avoided her successfully for a whole day, while 
Lena bided her time, for she knew that Annie 
could not escape her finally. It was not until 
the next afternoon, however, that they met. 
Lena was standing at the door of the bakery as 
her friend returned from her studies at the con- 
vent. Annie saw her from across the street, and 
her heart began to beat in a very disconcerting 
fashion. She was in hopes that Lena would go 
back to her work before she came up, but Mrs. 
Zukerman was out, and Lena didn’t worry about 
her work. She watched Annie’s approach with 
satisfaction. 

^‘Been up to the convent?” she asked. 

^^Yes,” said Annie. 

^^It don’t seem like you would bother to keep 
on with that since you’ve got a young man,” 
Lena remarked. 

Annie stopped and looked her tormentor 
squarely in the face. ‘‘I knew you would be 
teasing me about Mr. Wagner, and I think you 
are very unkind, for you know that there was 
nothing out of the way in what I did.” 

^‘There wouldn’t have been nothin’ out of the 
way for me, but you have always been a different 
proposition.” 


136 


Father Bernard’s Parish 


Annie winced, hating to feel that she had de- 
scended to Lena’s plane. 

“You have always been held up to me as 
somethin’ too choice to waste your time with a 
young man.” 

“But I wasn’t saying anything more than a 
friendly word to him, for he’s a stranger.” 

“And he was just tellin’ you about himself 
from the age of two.” 

Annie’s eyes dropped, for Wagner had put her 
in possession of a considerable portion of his his- 
tory. 

“I thought so.” Lena remarked. 

“Well, what if he did speak of himself? It’s 
natural for him to want to talk to somebody.” 

“I didn’t say it wasn’t natural. What ain’t 
natural is the way you’ve been behavin’ up to 
now, and glvin’ yourself airs about my ways.” 

“Oh, Lena, I didn’t give myself airs!” cried 
Annie reprovingly. 

“Well, maybe you didn’t mean to,” Lena ad- 
mitted,‘‘ but you’ve been so stuck up about bein’ 
so good, and goin’ into the convent, that I was 
right down glad I seen you flirtin’ with that fel- 
ler yesterday.” 

Annie turned pale. “Don’t ever say that 
again!” she exclaimed. 

‘‘What do you want me to call it?” 

137 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

‘‘You needn’t call it anything.” 

“So you don’t want me to tell about it.” 

“You can do exactly as you please,” said Annie, 
realizing with consternation that she couldn’t say 
she didn’t care. 

“He’s scared, too, that I’m going to tell,” Lena 
informed her. 

“ Oh, you didn’t say anything to him about it !” 
Annie cried in despair. 

“ Didn’t I, though ! I got him all fussed up 
about it.” 

“How could you !” 

Lena laughed, and yet a certain odd pity for 
Annie in her inexperience and evident distress 
came over her. 

“See here,” she said. “Do you think I was 
shocked to see you talkin’ to that drug-store 
chap?” 

Annie didn’t know; she was shocked herself 
as she came to think about it. 

“I’ll tell you what I thought,” Lena went on. 
“I says to myself: ‘Annie’s gettin’ some sense 
at last.’” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Mean ? I mean you might as well be dead 
as go into that convent.” 

“Dead to the world,” Annie amended. 

“But you won’t die quick,” said Lena. “You’ll 

138 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

be thinkin’ day and night of how you might have 
had a feller and lived different. That’s the way 
a woman is, and you can no more change it 
than you can make the sun into an altar-candle.” 

Annie looked at her friend, half convinced, 
half afraid of the tumult that the words had 
aroused within herself. 

‘‘There’s no sin in lovin’?” said Lena im- 
petuously. 

Annie felt her moorings giving way before this 
argument. “Please stop; I can’t listen to you 
any more!” she cried. 

“Nobody ever said a kinder word to you,” the 
older girl declared. “Don’t you believe me?” 

Again Annie was uncertain. She turned to 
Lena, her big blue eyes questioning and dis- 
tressed. 

“You’re an awful pretty girl, and it’s no won- 
der he’s stuck on you,” Lena said, moved by a 
sudden generous impulse. 

“Do you think — ” Annie began, but blushed 
and stopped. 

“Sure I He was awful stiff to me about you.” 

“Does that show he likes me?” Annie asked 
timidly. 

“Ain’t you a kid!” cried Lena, and both girls 
laughed. It was the first bit of spontaneous 
intercourse they had had since their ways had 

139 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

parted some years before, and they were both 
carried back to their childish days when Lena, 
half grown, untamed, and swarthy, had taken 
Annie, curled and washed, and still little more 
than a baby, under her protecting wing in the 
rough games of the street. 

‘‘Say, you needn’t worry about me tellin’,” 
Lena declared. 

Annie expressed her thanks with a look, and 
regretted inwardly that she was relieved by the 
assurance. She was somewhat dazed by the 
startling ideas that Lena had advanced, and to 
which her heart had made such turbulent response. 
All of her well-arranged convictions seemed to 
be in a state of upheaval that threw her into a 
new attitude toward a future which she had ac- 
cepted with confidence, childlike and docile. 

Even Oscar Hauser noticed some change in her 
when he came in early that night. He couldn’t 
decide just what it was that seemed strange about 
Annie, since he was not astute enough to discover 
that for the first time in their acquaintance she 
was considering him as a man, not as a person. 
To be sure, her chief thought as she looked at 
him was of his inferiority to George Wagner, but 
Oscar didn’t know that, either, and Annie’s un- 
wonted attention seemed to indicate the fruition 
of his hopes. 


140 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

She’s cornin’ round,” he said to himself, and 
deplored the fact that he had brought nothing 
home for her that evening from the delicatessen. 

‘‘It didn’t seem as though I could find any- 
thing you’d care about to-night,” he said apolo- 
getically. 

“That’s all right. Thank you just the same 
for thinking of me,” Annie replied. 

“You know I’m doin’ that night and day,” 
said Oscar with a sigh, and she realized suddenly 
that he deserved her sympathy at least. 

“You ought to think about some other girl 
who could feel the way you do, Oscar,” she said 
gently. 

“And why can’t you?” he asked, surprising 
himself by his boldness. 

“Oh, don’t ask me !” Annie cried, but her con- 
fusion seemed to testify that she had left the se- 
clusion of cloistered shades. 

“I got to ask you,” Oscar declared. “I can’t 
stand here and see you go into that convent and 
say nothin’ to stop it, when you’re breakin’ my 
heart and ruinin’ your own life into the bar- 
gain.” 

“It wouldn’t be really ruining my life,” she 
said, arguing to convince herself, and forgetting 
all about poor Oscar’s heart. 

“Why wouldn’t it ? You ought to be havin’ a 
141 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

home of your own, and a man to take care of 
you.” 

Annie shut her eyes, and thought quite un- 
reasonably of George Wagner. 

‘'Do you think that is the only way to be 
happy?” she asked, looking away. 

“Sure!” said Oscar simply. Then they were 
silent for a while. At last he said: “Fm gettin’ 
twelve a week, and Fve a bank-book of my own 
these two years.” 

She, however, was absorbed in wild imaginings, 
and did not catch the relevancy of his remarks. 

“Perhaps you was thinkin’ it was more,” he 
said despondently. 

“No, that’s a great deal,” she assured him. 

His expression brightened. “Then, couldn’t you 
let me speak to the old lady?” 

Annie looked at him and saw the hopes she had 
unthinkingly raised. “Oh, no, you mustn’t say 
anything of the kind — ^you mustn’t even think 
about it.” 

Oscar sighed, and his face resumed its cus- 
tomary stolidity. “I can’t help thinkin’,” he said 
wearily. 

“Fm so sorry!” she answered truly, her sym- 
pathy of late grown broader. 

“Is it the convent that stands in the way ?” he 
asked. 


142 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

She hesitated, for she had not yet answered the 
question to herself, and she was honest. Oscar 
waited for her to reply, vaguely feeling the solem- 
nity of the moment. 

‘‘I don’t know,” she faltered at last. 

‘‘Then it’s me,” he said sadly, and turned 
away. 

Annie didn’t try to soften the blow. She 
didn’t even think about it, for she was facing a 
very terrifying conviction. 


143 


CHAPTER IX 


F ather Bernard sometimes wished that 
his parishioners were not quite so numerous, 
so that he might keep himself more closely in 
touch with them. As it was, he was not always 
sure of names and faces, and had sometimes to 
let his tact and his ready sympathy cover his 
failure to recognize a member of his flock. This 
was particularly true with reference to the girls 
and boys who matured with such pitiable rapidity 
in the hotbed furnished by the city streets. Along 
with his fellow workers in the parish house, he 
christened them and taught them and confessed 
them, as children, and then they drifted away for 
a time. They came seldom to confession, and not 
regularly to mass. It was only when life began 
to bear heavily upon them that they returned 
to the church. Still, the priests of the parish 
tried to keep watch over them, and none more 
tenderly than Father Bernard. 

There was to him something so touching, so 
almost tragic, in the struggle of youth for hap- 
piness, surrounded, as here, by sordidness and 
sin. Try as he would, though, the boys and 
girls sometimes escaped him, and, if he missed 
144 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

seeing them once or twice when he went on his 
rounds, they had a way of suddenly bursting upon 
him in full-blown maturity. He was often startled 
thus into renewed efforts to know his people, 
and sent upon his way sick at heart, sometimes, 
to feel that he had been able to do so little to 
arm a young soul for the struggle with the tempta- 
tions upon which it had so suddenly come. The 
young people had all been confirmed. Yes, he 
had seen to that, but — and here he often sighed. 
He never explained the sigh, even to himself, 
but he felt discouraged about them, usually, as 
they grew older. There was a very tender spot 
in his heart for them, though, probably because 
he remembered much and divined much. Never- 
theless, he didn’t always know them individually, 
and that fact made him greatly ashamed, for 
they never failed to speak to him as he passed. 
“How are you, father?” “It’s a nice day, your 
Reverence.” The other priests at the parish 
house were not always so carefully greeted. 
Though, to be sure. Father Bernard was unaware 
of that. 

So it was that, crossing to the subway station 
one day, his thoughts full of the beauty of the 
morning and of little else beside, he was startled 
by a voice from an express-wagon standing by 
the curb. “Good day, your Reverence.” 

I4S 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

Father Bernard stopped abruptly and his 
kind face showed not for one moment that he 
was saying over to himself: ‘‘Dennis McManus 
is on an ice-wagon, Michael McFlarrity is de- 
livering goods.” It was this process of elimina- 
tion that brought him to the right name, even as 
he returned the greeting. Undoubtedly, this was 
Tim Halligan. 

“Fm glad you’re still holding your job, Tim. 
There are not many who have your fine muscle 
for it,” he said, looking admiringly at the young 
man as he spoke. Tim’s collar was thrown open, 
his sleeves were rolled up, his damp shirt clung 
to his shoulders and well-developed body. There 
was a grace about him, too, as he stood upon the 
express-wagon, steadying himself with one hand 
upon a trunk. “So might Phoebus have looked,” 
Father Bernard thought, “or Bacchus — more 
probably Bacchus.” There was that in the young 
man’s expression which the father did not like; 
it made him uneasy. 

“I called upon your mother not long ago,” 
he said. 

“She was tellin’ me,” said Tim. 

“She’s a brave woman, Tim. It’s fine to think 
how she has raised you and Annie with no one 
to help through all these years.” 

“Sure, your Reverence,” said Tim, and sud- 
146 


Father Bernard’s Parish 


denly he seemed to understand something of the 
hardness of his mother’s life. 

‘‘You make it up to her now, though,” Father 
Bernard went on. “You have no idea how proud 
she is of you, Tim.” 

The young man looked down the street, any- 
where but into Father Bernard’s eyes. “I’m 
nothin’ to be proud of,” he said miserably. 

“That’s what we all feel,” the priest answered. 
He did not think it best to speak definitely to 
Tim about his habits. Experience had taught 
him that some natures must be appealed to in- 
directly, through the emotions, and he believed 
this to be one of them. Abstract statements of 
right and wrong might as well not be uttered to 
Tim; direct appeals sometimes cause embarrass- 
ment that leaves a resentful feeling behind; the 
only hope for him was to quicken what was best 
within him. 

“How is Lena.^” Father Bernard asked sud- 
denly. 

Tim started, and gave the father one quick 
look. Then he colored slightly and averted his 
gaze. He remembered that Harry Veinig had 
told the father about Lena. “The kid was just 
foolin’ about Lena bein’ my girl,” he said. 

“You’d hunt a long way to get a finer one,” 
the father said. 


147 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

Tim looked down at him in surprise; he had 
not thought that Lena would be apt to win the 
father’s commendation. Father Bernard smiled. 
He saw what was in Tim’s mind, but did not 
think it necessary to explain that virtue wears 
not always the same guise. 

She’ll make a fine woman if she marries a 
man she can love — and respect,” he said. 

Tim caught the idea and pondered over it, as 
the other meant that he should. 

The father wondered if Lena had been true to 
her promise to hold on to Tim, yet he scarcely 
knew just how to find out. Suddenly Tim, in- 
spired by the kindly interest, became unexpect- 
edly confidential. 

“I don’t know what to make of Lena,” he said. 
‘‘Last week, without me beggin’ or nothin’, she 
came out one night and made up a sort of fuss 
we had a while back.” 

“Oh, she made it up, did she?” the priest said 
with satisfaction. He had thought she would do 
so, but he didn’t say so. 

“What she done it for, though, I can’t see,” 
Tim went on, “For it wasn’t more than a few 
days before she thrown me off again.” 

Father Bernard was really annoyed at that, 
for he had thought the matter on the way toward 
settlement. “Tim, you must have been drink- 
148 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

ing,” he cried, forgetting to be tactful in his 
exasperation at the turn that events had taken. 

“I was as sober as your Reverence,’’ said Tim 
sullenly. ‘‘But if she thinks I’m goin’ to stand 
around waitin’ for the leavin’s of an Eyetalian, 
she’s mistaken. That’s all.” 

Father Bernard understood the situation at 
once. “That’s too bad of Lena,” he said sadly. 
He had thought better of the girl. “Now, maybe 
you worried her about the Italian,” he sug- 
gested. 

“You bet I done it,” said Tim. 

“Ah, now, that’s unwise. Don’t let her see 
you care about it. That’s the way to make her 
stop fooling around with other fellows,” the 
priest advised. 

Tim looked at him incredulously; it was the 
same kind voice that had taught him the cate- 
chism. The father’s suggestion was plausible, of 
course, but, on this point at least, he doubted 
the infallibility of the clergy. “That’s mighty 
easy to say, your Reverence,” he answered mo- 
rosely. 

Father Bernard suddenly realized that it was. 
While he stood there trying to formulate some 
other piece of advice for Tim’s benefit, a servant 
came to the door, in front of which the wagon 
was drawn up, and said that Tim might go in 
149 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

for the trunk. The young expressman took two 
long steps and got to the pavement. 

Father Bernard, in parting, put a hand upon 
his shoulder. ‘‘Don’t be down-hearted, Tim, 
she ” 

“Aw, she don’t care nothin’ for me,” said Tim 
brusquely. 

“If you knew what I know you wouldn’t say 
so,” the priest replied, thinking of the tears that 
he had seen in Lena’s eyes. 

“What is it, father?” Tim questioned eagerly. 

“Find out for yourself,” the father answered, 
smiling. He was not sure that Lena would want 
him to say as much as he had said. 

Tim was vaguely cheered by Father Bernard’s 
manner. 

The servant at the house door grew impatient; 
the trunk was waiting. 

“Good luck to you, father,” said Tim, moving 
olF unwillingly. 

“The same to you, my boy. And, Tim!” 
The priest beckoned the young man nearer. 

Tim came back. “Yes, your Reverence?” 

“Keep sober,” Father Bernard whispered in his 
ear. 

Tim flushed and didn’t know what to say, but 
Father Bernard had gone on without waiting for 
a reply. 


Father Bernard’s Parish 


The interview changed the current of the 
father’s thought. He no longer felt his spirit 
in tune with the buoyant freshness of the morn- 
ing. He seemed, indeed, to have begun his day’s 
work, which, though so little defined, was not 
always easy. His sense of care and of the world’s 
sorrow was not lightened by the news in the 
paper that he bought at the subway station. 
The Germans were pushing their bloody way 
through Belgium, and a cry of anguish went 
around the world that morning. A line of news- 
papers sent it forth on each side of the car. 
French, Italians, and English, Germans, Irish, 
and Russians, with a plentiful sprinkling of 
nominally neutral Americans, were all reading 
the dreadful news. A dapper young Frenchman 
came bounding into the car, his near-sighted gaze 
bent intently upon his paper, one gloved hand 
mechanically gathering up the skirts of his frock 
coat as he made for a seat. The car filled, girls 
clung to straps they could barely reach, work- 
ing men crowded in with commuters at Grand 
Central station, and all read of Belgium, her 
suffering and her valor. 

Despite his mild manner, there was a touch of 
the martial spirit in Father Bernard. He would 
rather have been a crusader than a pilgrim — ^yet 
the cause must first be righteous. His soul was 
iSi 


Father Bernard’s Parish 


Stirred now by these echoes of battle that the 
newspapers were sending through the crowded 
subway train, and there was nothing pro-German 
in his sentiments as he read of Belgium’s fate. 
At last he dropped his paper and looked about 
him at his fellow passengers. They were not 
many of them very prepossessing, the rank and 
file, yet Europe was showing that patriotism was 
not dead, that capacity for heroism in men and 
women was still the rule, rather than the excep- 
tion. He believed that. It was the inspiration 
that he drew from life — and gave to it. It came 
to him now, a gleam of white light from the war- 
cloud, and it illumined the whole car, filled as it 
was with so motley a collection of nationalities. 

Nobody thought about Father Bernard. No- 
body knew that he was appraising the power of 
humanity for endeavor and endurance, as it came 
within his vision. He rated it high, perhaps too 
high, but that was his eccentricity in such cal- 
culations. The German countenances filled him 
with apprehension, particularly a resemblance to 
the Kaiser down by the door. He was glad to 
escape at last from its dominance and force. 

Father Bernard had several errands down- 
town, and it was about noon before he reached 
Columbus Avenue again. He stopped in at 
Veinig’s shop to get a pair of shoes he had left 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

there to be patched, and he found the cobbler 
in high spirits over German successes. The 
father’s eye flashed at Veinig’s paean of joy. 
He had not meant to argue, but Veinig was too 
exasperating. They were deep in the struggle 
before either realized it. Father Bernard went 
back into history. Veinig matched his facts 
with others — he had been a reading man. 

Little Harry, hearing the voices, ran in to find 
out what the talk was all about, but the men were 
too absorbed to notice him. The boy looked at 
the priest in surprise; he had never seen Father 
Bernard so worked up before. The conversation 
interested Harry. “Tim says the Kaiser’s no 
good,” he put in. 

Veinig dropped his work and looked over his 
glasses at his son. “Don’t bring me no tales of 
the low Irish,” he commanded. “If they had 
any sense and any spirit they’d break loose from 
their masters while they can.” 

Father Bernard controlled himself with dif- 
ficulty. There was Irish blood in his own veins, 
and it had a way of boiling up sometimes. 
“You’ll do well to leave the Irish alone, Veinig,” 
he said. 

“And why should I when you come into my 
shop and talk about the Kaiser?” Veinig de- 
manded. 

153 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

‘‘That's so," the priest said contritely. “I 
should not have spoken about the war." 

“Hoch der Kaiser!" Veining exclaimed in 
triumph, and went back to his work. “Get the 
shoes on the shelf yonder, Harry," he said. 

Father Bernard waited in silence while Harry 
tied up the clumsy bundle, and, as he waited, 
it came over him suddenly that something very 
beautiful and pure was pulsating through the 
dingy, dirty, little shop. 

He turned and looked at Veinig, bent sullenly 
over his trade. The old German was not an 
heroic-looking person, and yet a passionate 
patriotism was flaming within him. Father 
Bernard looked, and, in justice to Veinig, he ad- 
mired, but he made up his mind he would do 
well not to drop in again — or, at least, not until 
Germany was beaten. 

Harry went outside with him. “I ain't for 
the Kaiser, neither," he whispered. “Tim 
says " 

Father Bernard cut the quotation short; 
through the window there was a pathetic look 
about his late antagonist. “You owe your 
father's country a hearing, Harry," he said. 

“But Tim says," Harry began again. 

“Do you know what your father says ?" 

“No, sir." 


154 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

^‘Well, ask him,” said the priest and started 
olF, yet it distressed him to pass on Veinig’s 
specious reasoning and half-truths with recom- 
mendations to the young. After a few steps he 
stopped. ^‘Harry!” he called. 

“Yes, your Reverence.” 

“Understand, I don’t agree with your father.” 

Harry had gathered that already. “You are 
on Tim’s side. Tim says ” 

“Tim doesn’t read, my son.” 

“He knows a lot without readin’,” Harry de- 
clared. “He says his father came from Tip- 
perary.” 

The priest’s face broke into a smile. “Well, 
well, who would have thought it!” he exclaimed. 
That was where his own mother had come from. 
He wondered how that tune ‘‘Tipperary” went; 
he hoped the hurdy-gurdies would soon take 
it up. 

His mind was still full of the war as he walked 
home and, unconsciously, he fell into a march- 
ing step, keeping time with an insistent strain of 
music that was being ground out in the street. 
Ah, poor Europe 1 Poor Belgium 1 He seemed 
to bear the burden of it all upon his heart, and, 
yet something of the boy, still living within him, 
longed for a taste of the adventure. He would 
like to be marching into Flanders with an Eng- 
155 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

lish regiment. That would be something like 
life. This, this uninviting avenue with its bar- 
tering crowds ! This was his parish. He put 
the other thought away from him. This was his 
choice, and it would be if he had to choose again. 
He was thankful for that consciousness. After 
all, it was not so poor a battle-field. 

He looked about him, fearing that in his ab- 
straction he had passed some of his parishioners 
without speaking, and discovered that he was 
just in front of Zukerman’s. 

Lena and the young Italian were standing in 
the door. If she had seen the priest in time she 
would not have been there, but the best she 
could do now was to turn her head and affect 
not to know that he was passing. She couldn’t 
bear to meet Father Bernard’s accusing eye. 

‘‘So that’s the Italian,” he mused, and con- 
templated stopping. But Lena’s averted head 
made him suspect that she did not want to see 
him. “Too bad of Lena,” he said mournfully 
to himself. He really was disappointed in the 
girl. 

Lena stole a look after him as he passed and, 
perhaps, she saw some suggestion of discourage- 
ment about him. It may have been merely her 
own conscience that gave her a twinge. At any 
rate, she ran impulsively into the street and 

156 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

called after him. ‘^Father Bernard !” He turned 
at once. 

‘‘1 kept my promise!” she cried. 

^‘Do it again,” he answered quickly. 

She shook her head and went back to Francisco, 
yet the father’s request fell in with a longing that 
was growing in her own heart. How did he know 
that she and Tim had quarrelled again ? 

Francisco found her suddenly rather pensive. 
‘‘What you theenk abouta?” he asked curiously, 
and looked after the priest with some interest. 
“That ees your padre?” 

“Yes, and believe me, he’s a grand man,” said 
Lena with sudden enthusiasm. 

“The priest in thees country are nota much,” 
Francisco declared. “It ees always ‘the money, 
the money.’ Now in Italy there ees no money.” 

“Italy must be dreadful slow; New York’s 
good enough for me,” said Lena. 

“Ah, buta you would looka sweet in Italy!” 
he exclaimed admiringly. 

“I wouldn’t go into a country that was standin’ 
in with Germany,” she said. 

“But Italy ees going to make the war, too,” 
he declared. 

“Against Germany ?” 

“Oh, yes, and Austria. The Italian hate Aus- 
tria.” There was a quick hardening of Francisco’s 

157 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

handsome face. So might a Roman legionary 
have looked upon the conquering Goth. Lena 
admired the expression; she liked all things 
strong and virile. “You wait,” he went on, 
“Italy will fight Austria, and she will beat, too.” 

“I don’t care about Austria, Germany’s the 
whole show!” Lena exclaimed. Francisco made 
a gesture of indifference. “Germany ees not so 
bad. But eef Italy can get her greep on Aus- 
tria.” He smiled with a sinister look of satis- 
faction. 

“You people know how to hate, don’t you?” 
said Lena. 

“And to love,” he answered quickly, his eyes 
giving her the flattery of a personal application 
of his speech. 

“You mean to flirt.” 

“Flirt ! I never hear that teel I come to Amer- 
ica,” he said scornfully. “The Italian don’ wanta 
no foolin’. He love the girl queeck, and she ees 
the only one.” 

A church clock near rang out the hour just 
then, and he greeted the sound with a sigh. 
“You maka me so lazee; I don’ wanta work.” 

“All the Italians are lazy. I’m not makin’ 
you,” said Lena. 

“Ain’t you gotta no good word for the poor 
Italian ?” he asked. 

158 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

“They are good-lookinV’ said Lena with a 
glance from beneath her lashes. 

“Say, you theenka so?” he asked, his vanity 
childlike in its frankness. 

“Some of ’em,” said Lena, and the way she 
said it did not detract from Francisco’s pleasure. 

“Don’ you forgeta to waita for me to-night; I 
take you to a dance-hall to-night.” 

“I don’t want to dance,” said Lena decidedly. 

“No? But I have take two lesson for half a 
dollar. I know all the step now.” 

“I’m tired of dancin’,” she declared. 

His face fell. “Eef you say that before I would 
not have wasta my half a dollar.” 

“Oh, it will come in handy with somebody 
else,” said Lena. 

“I tella you there ees no one.” 

“You’d better go on to your work,” she ad- 
vised him. 

“All right. Remember we go to a movie to- 
night, then.” 

She nodded. 

“Say, you lika me, eh ?” 

“Sure. I wouldn’t waste my time foolin’ here 
with you if I didn’t.” 

“I am not foolin’,” he declared. 

“Step lively,” said Lena and she shut the screen 
door in his face and went back into the bakery. 

159 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

Mrs. Zukerman greeted her with an outraged 
air. “Fifteen minutes you are standin’ in that 
door, Lena Schramin, keepin’ out the customers 
and lettin’ in the flies.” 

Lena made no reply; her sense of her own im- 
portance had increased greatly since her pay 
had been raised. She knew Mrs. Zukerman 
would not be apt to dismiss her. The room was 
in great disorder, for the tables had not been 
cleared, so the girl picked up her waiter and be- 
gan piling the dishes on it, clattering them noisily, 
as was her custom, while her employer kept up 
a continuous complaint about her and her ways. 

After a minute or two the door opened and 
Francisco put his head in again. “Say, why 
don’ you come over thees afternoon and see me 
boss my gang?” he suggested to Lena. 

Before she could answer Mrs. Zukerman had 
dashed up from the rear. “And what am I payin’ 
her for, already ? It ain’t for walkin’ up and down 
watchin’ you showin’ ofF with no gang!” she ex- 
claimed. 

Francisco looked crestfallen; he had forgotten 
about Mrs. Zukerman. “Tha’s right,” he agreed 
in a conciliatory tone. 

“You are already took up her time this 
mornln’.” 

“ Say, I pay. I eat more sandwiches to-mor- 
row,” he promised. 

i6o 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

“How is that to pay? You’ll be gettin’ more 
than the worth of your money in the food,” Mrs. 
Zukerman replied. 

“Ain’t she queeck?” Francisco exclaimed with 
such an admiring air that Mrs. Zukerman’s man- 
ner became less severe. 

“Can she come?” he asked ingratiatingly. 

Lena looked up from her dishes. “Why don’t 
you ask me will I ?” 

“You too mean; I aska the boss first. Tha’s 
right,” he said again. 

“I’ve an order for a cocoanut pie over that 
side this afternoon,” Mrs. Zukerman said re- 
flectively. 

Francisco beamed upon Lena. “Aha, she can 
take it on the way.” 

Mrs. Zukerman did not deny this. 

“Now, three o’clock! Eh?” he said. 

Lena laughed. “Watch out for me,” she told 
him, and disappeared in the rear with her tray. 

Francisco looked at Mrs. Zukerman with an 
appealing air. “Don’ you forgeta the pie. Ah, 
you so kind 1 You make me verra much oblige !” 
he exclaimed. She selected a tart from the dish 
on the counter and put it into his hand. 

“Thank you. But it ees good; lika the one 
who geeve me!” he cried. 

Mrs. Zukerman stepped up close to him at 
that, and held up her finger. 

i6i 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

‘'Don’t put your trust in Lena no more; she’s 
the same with all the men,” she said in a low 
tone. 

He gave a knowing smile. “Nota quite the 
same with all. Tha’s the way the young girl do. 
You bet you do that way yourself one time, too.” 
He laughed, and Mrs. Zukerman did not deny 
his imputation, though she might have done so 
with perfect truth, for her conduct in youth had 
borne no resemblance to Lena’s. 

She went back to her work with a smile on 
her face that caused Lena considerable amuse- 
ment. 

“He’s a slick one, jollyin’ old Zukey,” the girl 
said to herself. She respected Francisco’s ability 
still more, however, when Mrs. Zukerman ac- 
tually told her to start out with the pie. 

“Send it by the delivery boy,” said Lena curtly. 

Mrs. Zukerman seemed disappointed. “I prom- 
ised the young man,” she explained. 

“Why don’t you take it yourself, then, and 
watch him boss his gang.^” Lena asked. She 
had hesitated as to whether she might venture 
this amusing suggestion, but Mrs. Zukerman did 
not seem to take it amiss. 

She considered it a minute, but then shook her 
head. “Ach, no,” she said with a sigh. “Ain’t 
you goin’, Lena?” she asked wistfully. 

162 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

“What you take me for?” said Lena. “I 
don’t stand around watchin’ any man.” 

“Sure, you’ll die single, and it’ll serve you 
right,” Mrs. Zukerman remarked with some 
temper as she went to call the errand boy to 
carry the pie. 

By that time Francisco was throwing an extra 
note of command into his occasional orders, 
which were less occasional than in the earlier 
part of the day. His glance turned ever and 
again to the street above the pit in which his 
men were at work, but though many a passer- 
by stopped and looked over the railing, he did 
not see Lena. For a full hour he posed and 
shouted, sure that at any moment she might 
arrive. At last he gave her up, and slipped back 
into his customary methods of procedure, his 
mind reverting to Mrs. Zukerman’s warning. 

“The old girl, she know,” he said to himself 
sagely. “Ah, buta Lena, you play me a treeck !” 

And then, in spite of both warning and trick, 
he reflected with joy that she was going with 
him to the movies that very night. 


163 


CHAPTER X 


P OOR Tim was not quite clear in his mind as 
to how he and Lena had happened to quarrel, 
but the fact that they had done so was thrust 
upon him every night when he saw her stroll out 
with Francisco, for whose undoing the lace dress 
and other adornments were alluringly displayed. 
Tim watched them from doorways dark enough 
to suit his mood, while Lena seemed always 
deeply absorbed in her new admirer as they 
passed, for no doorway was quite dark enough 
to hide the well-known figure from her searching 
glance^ and Francisco never knew how many 
favors he owed to the presence of a rival whom 
he neither saw nor considered. 

Indeed, Tim, standing half concealed in the 
shadow, made a pleasing feature of Lena’s evening 
stroll, perhaps all the more interesting from the 
fact that she was not able to find out whether he 
was drunk or sober. At last she determined to 
speak to Harry Veinig on the subject. She had 
some difficulty in running across him, however, 
for the boy disliked her and usually kept out of 
her way. When all other plans for meeting him 
164 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

alone had failed, she happened to see Veinig come 
out of his little shop and take a down-town car. 

At once Lena decided that she would go to the 
cobbler’s as though she wanted some work done, 
so she slipped through Mrs. Zukerman’s swinging 
doors and went out with a little bundle under 
her arm. Harry was keeping the shop as she 
knew that he would be. 

“You can leave it, for my father’s out,” he 
said promptly. 

At this, Lena sat down, remarking that she 
would wait. 

Harry laughed unpleasantly. “Then you’ll 
wait till night and miss your feller.” 

He couldn’t have given Lena a better opening. 
“Tim ain’t cornin’ to see me to-night,” she said 
quickly. 

“ ’Cause he’s dropped you,” Harry declared, 
and then remembered that he had entered upon 
a forbidden subject. 

“Dropped me! You mean I dropped him. 
That’s the reason he’s off on a drunk again.” 

Harry’s face shone with indignation, and it 
was all he could do to hold his tongue, but he 
was determined not to bring down Tim’s wrath 
by talking too much again, and he shut his lips 
resolutely. 

Lena scarcely knew what to make of his silence; 

i6s 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

his expression spoke in defense of his friend, yet 
evidently Tim was drunk or the boy would have 
denied it. 

“You can’t say it ain’t so!” she exclaimed. 

Harry looked at her shrewdly, overjoyed that 
he had managed to keep silent. “If you come 
down here to get me to tell you about Tim, you 
might as well have stayed to Zukerman’s,” he 
said. 

Lena was somewhat taken aback at this unex- 
pected insight into her motives, but she accepted 
his understanding of the situation. “You’re a 
smart kid!” she declared. “If you think I want 
to know about Tim why don’t you tell me?” 
Her tone was propitiating, and Harry grew sus- 
picious. 

“I ain’t goin’ to talk about him,” he said stub- 
bornly. 

“Who wants you to ?” she asked with affected 
indifference, and realizing that the boy meant 
what he said, she rose to go. 

Harry looked up. “Thought you was goin’ 
to wait for my father?” 

“I’ve changed my mind,” said Lena, yet she 
did not go out, but stood there in uncertainty 
for a moment. 

A train passed on the elevated road just then, 
and when the roar had subsided Harry said: 
i66 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

“ril take a message to Tim for you if you want 
me to.’’ He didn’t know why he said it, cer- 
tainly not on Lena’s account — nothing would 
have pleased him better than for Tim to get over 
his fondness for her. 

Lena turned away and walked to the door 
where she stood thinking. There were many 
things she would have liked to say to Tim, but 
she was not prepared to humble herself to the 
extent of sending any one of them as a message. 
Another elevated train went by above, and yet 
another, before she spoke to Harry, and even 
then she made no reference to his offer. 

‘‘Well, I must go on,” she said. “Tell your 
father he can’t be expectin’ much custom, stayin’ 
out on the street all the time.” 

“And tell Tim nothin’?” Harry asked. 

“Are you after me again for something to say 
to Tim ?” she exclaimed. 

“Tell him I’d miss him somethin’ awful if it 
wasn’t for a gentleman friend of mine.” 

“No, I won’t neither!” the child cried in- 
dignantly, at which Lena laughed and went out. 

Harry was well pleased at his own conduct, 
and gave a detailed account of it that very night 
to Tim, who was too much interested in Lena’s 
inquiries about himself to commend his friend’s 
self-control. 


167 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

‘‘Didn’t she send me no message?” he asked. 

The little boy hesitated. “Somebody come 
in the shop just then,” he said, lying with friendly 
zeal. 

“Does she think Fm on a drunk?” Tim in- 
quired. 

Harry had not gathered what she thought. 

“What would she like me to be, drunk or so- 
ber?” 

Again Harry didn’t know. 

“Why don’t you keep your head on you and 
find out somethin’ ?” Tim asked in disgust. 

“Didn’t you tell me not to talk about you ?” 

“Well, anybody that’s got sense can tell when 
to talk and when to shut up,” said Tim, and 
Harry was justly indignant. 

“She thinks that Eyetalian is the only man in 
New York that can keep sober!” Tim exclaimed; 
but the boy made no comment upon the state- 
ment, for he was too deeply offended to take up 
the conversation at once. 

“Why don’t you open your head?” Tim de- 
manded after several of his remarks had been 
received in silence. 

“It ain’t nothin’ I can do can please you.” 

“Oh, I suppose you was tryin’ to do right.” 

Harry sniffled, fearing momentarily that he 
would not be able to maintain his manly com- 
posure. 


i68 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

guess you don’t know how hard it was for 
me to keep from talkin’ when Lena was tryin’ 
to find out about you.” 

This stirred Tim’s memory. ‘‘That’s right; a 
corkscrew ain’t nothin’ to Lena at times.” 

Harry was soothed by this admission. “Are 
you keepin’ sober ’cause the Eyetalian is?” he 
asked. 

“That’s about the size of it,” said Tim. 

“Then why don’t you let your girl know you’re 
doin’ it ? You ought to be standin’ out in the 
light so she can see you.” 

There was something in this suggestion, and 
Tim meditated upon it for a while. “Blamed if 
you ain’t right, kid,” he decided at last. 

“You might just as well be drinkin’ as lettin’ 
her think you are.” 

“Just so,” said Tim, and wondered why he 
had not worked out that idea for himself. 

“Put on a dike, too,” his adviser suggested. 

Tim looked at him with admiration. “Say, 
you’ll get a brainstorm thinkin’ up all them 
things, governor!” he exclaimed, and his woe- 
begone expression gave place to a smile. There 
must be something in the idea, since it had oc- 
curred both to Father Bernard and to Harry. 
It seemed strange that the two should think 
alike, and Tim took it as an evidence of unusual 
mental development on the part of the boy. 

169 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

“You got a head on you, young one,” he said 
patronizingly. 

Harry beamed with pleasure at the praise his 
idol had bestowed. 

‘‘When you get a girl yourself you’ll know how 
to work it,” Tim added. 

“I ain’t goin’ to have no girl,” Harry reiterated, 
and then, a sudden realization of his own dis- 
advantages coming to him, he said with a pa- 
thetic little laugh: “It’s good I don’t want ’em, 
for I don’t suppose none of ’em would want me.” 

“Don’t you fool yourself,” said Tim. ‘‘You’re 
just the kind they’ll be after — some one that 
don’t care about ’em, one of these here head 
workers that can keep ’em guessin’.” 

“I don’t want to be a head worker,” Harry 
complained. 

“You’ll make more money that way, kid.” 

“I’d rather carry trunks,” the boy answered 
decidedly. 

“Well, of course, you can do that if you want 
to, but you’ll be foxy with the girls all right,” 
said Tim. 

“Oh, I’m foxy,” Harry agreed. “Now, you’ll 
do like I say, won’t you, Tim ?” 

“Dogged if I don’t,” Tim replied; for upon 
consideration, the course outlined by Harry 
struck him as being decidedly more agreeable 
170 


Father Bernard’s Parish 


than that which he had first adopted, and on the 
very next evening when he came home from work 
he put on his Sunday suit and started out. His 
mother called to him from the kitchen, but, aware 
that her curiosity would be excited by his ap- 
pearance, he answered her from the passage, 
affecting great haste. 

Where are ye goin’ ?” she demanded. 

‘‘Out,” said Tim, wondering how he could get 
his hat from beyond the kitchen door. 

“Are ye not cornin’ in to have a word with 
yer mother before ye are out and away ?” 

“It’s gettin’ late,” said Tim. 

“An’ talkin’ to yer mother is somethin’ ye can 
well do without,” said Mrs. Halligan sarcasti- 
cally. 

“What you want to talk about?” he asked. 

“I’m not after talkin’ about nothin’ through 
the wall,” she remarked. 

“I ain’t got time right now,” Tim explained, 
but his tone was apologetic, for he felt his moth- 
er’s reproach 

“Go on. I’ll not detain ye,” she said loftily. 

“I’ll see you in the mornin’,” said Tim. 

She made no reply to this, and having lis- 
tened to her movements for a moment, he de- 
termined to risk stepping past the doorway for 
his hat. He might have known his mother would 
171 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

be too quick for him. One glimpse was sufficient 
to reveal to her the Sunday suit. 

‘‘So that’s why ye’re hidin’ yerself in the pas- 
sage!” she exclaimed. 

He growled unintelligibly. 

“What call is it to be wearin’ yer Sunday suit 
of a Wednesday night ?” 

Again a growl from the passage. 

“Are ye after that girl again?” she asked sus- 
piciously. 

Tim attempted a laugh. “Can’t I dress my- 
self good without your thinkin’ it’s for Lena?” 

“Well, I wish her joy of ye!” she announced. 

Her son went out abruptly and banged the 
door, and the old woman’s severe expression gave 
place to a smile as she went about her work. 
Tim gave her many an anxious moment from one 
cause or another, yet the sight of him in his 
Sunday suit was always peculiarly gratifying to 
her pride. 

“Ye’d be thinkin’ he was a gentleman, just 
passin’ him out on the street,” she said to herself. 
Mrs. Halligan had Old World ideas about gen- 
tlemen, however, and did not deceive herself by 
thinking that Tim was one, however well his fine 
young strength might be clothed upon with a 
Sunday suit and a tall white collar. 

Tim walked down to the drug-store and took 
172 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

his stand by a well-lighted window where sea-salt 
and hot-water bottles were artistically displayed. 
He couldn’t help being pleased with his appear- 
ance as he caught occasional glimpses of himself 
in the central mirror with which the window was 
set off, and he waited the passing of Lena and 
Francisco with considerable satisfaction. 

George Wagner came to the door after a while 
and scanned the street in the vain hope of seeing 
Annie, who had not been into the store of late. 
She was nowhere about, however, and he sighed 
and looked up meditatively at the elevated road. 
He found the outer air agreeable, for the night 
was warm, and, coming out of his revery at last, 
he discovered Tim, who, after all, was brother to 
Annie, and of more than passing interest to him 
on that account. 

“The humidity is pretty bad to-night, isn’t 
it ? ” he remarked in the young man’s direction. 

“I don’t know what it is, but it’s dog-gone hot,” 
Tim responded at once. He always met friend- 
liness more than half-way. 

“A drug-store is not much of a summer resort, 
I can tell you,” said George. “The fans scarcely 
make any impression these days.” 

“Fans!” Tim exclaimed in scorn. “They 
don’t furnish no fans in the baggage-transfer 
business. I got a sweatin’ job, and don’t you 

173 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

forget It. Every trunk I handled to-day came 
from a third story except one, and that came 
from a fourth.” 

“I say, that must take muscle,” George com- 
mented. 

Tim swelled out his chest but said nothing. 

‘^Ever do any stunts in a gymnasium?” the 
other asked. 

‘^Do I.” Tim smiled condescendingly and be- 
gan an account of his athletic achievements. In 
the course of it the moment of his evening ar- 
rived. Lena came down the street with Francisco, 
and Tim flattered himself that he could not have 
been seen to better advantage, for he was ele- 
gantly attired and in cheerful conversation with 
so respectable a personage as the drug-store 
clerk. He quite forgot that it was by little Harry’s 
advice that he was there, and took to himself 
all the credit for his successful appearance. He 
stopped for a moment, just in the middle of a 
sentence, as he caught sight of Lena and her 
Italian, and Wagner noticed the change in his 
expression. 

‘‘That’s a good-looking girl,” George volun- 
teered, though he had no very great admiration 
for Lena. 

“I was lookin’ at that Eyetalian lemon she’s 
carryin’ around with her,” Tim said contemp- 
tuously. 


174 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

“Who is he?” 

“You got me there. Who is any dago? He’s 
diggin’ a hole over toward Central Park, that’s 
all I know about him.” 

“A girl is mighty foolish to take up with a 
fellow like that without knowing anything about 
him.” 

“Ever seen a girl that wasn’t foolish?” Tim 
asked. 

George would have liked to mention Annie, 
but refrained. Instead, he said: “I tell you, 
you want to find out about a fellow these days. 
A funny thing happened in my town once.” 

“Let’s go in and get somethin’ to drink,” Tim 
suggested, interrupting the reminiscence. So 
they went inside to the soda-fountain and ac- 
quaintance ripened. 

“What was you sayin’ about your town?” 

George made the most of the opportunity for 
talking about his home. “I was just going to 
tell you how a fellow worked a little game there. 
He came down just before the circus struck 
town, and said he was the agent. Then he went 
to the three butchers and told them to put in 
bids for feeding the animals.” 

“I guess they did it pretty quick,” said Tim. 

“Oh, yes, they did it, and next day the fellow 
called around to tell each one of them privately 
that his bid was all right, only it might just as 

175 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

well be a hundred dollars higher, the manager 
would never know the difference, and they could 
divide the extra money between them — the 
agent and the butcher. The scheme sort of ap- 
pealed to the butchers, and the show-agent told 
each one to give him a check for his fifty, and the 
deal would be closed. So every one of the three 
wrote out a check and gave it to the stranger, 
and he skipped on the one o’clock train. I saw 
him at the depot — he was a slick-looking fellow.” 

‘^And he wasn’t the agent ?” 

^‘No more than you are, but he could talk all 
right, and I guess the Hillville butchers weren’t 
any too quick-witted. They wanted to track 
him down and prosecute, but the lawyers told 
them they couldn’t go into the courts, because 
they had agreed to the plan of skinning the show- 
man.” 

don’t believe that feller could have worked 
his little trick in New York,” said Tim. 

“Maybe not. I just mentioned it to show what 
comes of trusting people who drop out of the 
sky, like the dago we were speaking of.” 

“Do you see anything to take your fancy In 
a dago?” Tim asked thoughtfully. 

“I don’t; no. But you can’t tell about a girl.” 

“You bet you can’t,” Tim agreed. “Know 
many girls?” he asked after a pause. 

176 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

‘‘IVe got a couple of sisters/’ 

“Oh, sisters ain’t in it. Now there’s Annie — 
she’s about as different from Lena as — as ” 

“As daylight from darkness,” George thought, 
but he kept his thought to himself, and Tim fin- 
ished lamely, “as anything.” 

“Your sister is a fine girl,” said George. 

“She ought to be when she’s goin’ to be a 
nun next year.” Tim had forgotten Harry’s 
suggestion that the drug clerk was interested in 
Annie. 

“Do you agree to that idea?” Wagner asked 
cautiously. 

“If it pleases her it’s all right, I guess,” Tim 
said easily; “but you can make sure I ain’t think- 
in’ of takin’ no holy orders myself.” 

George smiled, and said he had not suspected 
him of the intention. 

“But I ain’t a bad feller,” Tim volunteered. 
“There’s some that thinks me dog-gone bad, but 
it’s a big difference between me and a reg’lar 
tough.” 

“I should say!” George agreed. 

It was absorbing thus to discourse about him- 
self, and Tim leaned against the counter and con- 
tinued his estimate of his character at some 
length. He almost missed seeing Lena again as 
she returned from her expedition with Francisco. 
177 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

Indeed, when she passed, he was just saying a 
few last words to George, who had gone to the 
door to make preparations for closing up for the 
night. Lena looked at the two with curiosity, 
and determined to find out next day what they 
had been talking about. 

‘‘Who you look at?” asked Francisco, and 
following the direction of her glance was made 
aware of Tim’s existence. “Ain’t you forgeta 
that other feller yet ?” he asked. 

“I don’t lose any sleep over him,” said Lena. 

“An’ me? You lose your sleep to thinka of 
me sometime in da night?” he asked ardently. 

Lena usually evaded such questions. “I’d be 
tellin’ you if I did, wouldn’t I ? ” she replied. 

“No, you would not tella me. Now, Italian 
girl she tella da feller. But you! You lika da 
deep sea — ^you tella nothing.” 

Lena laughed at his understanding of her. 

Tim let them pass, and then he fell in behind 
them. Lena saw him, and even had she not done 
so, the remarks that he threw back to Wagner 
would have advised her of his presence. He 
seemed in a very gay mood indeed, and laughed 
extravagantly at something that the drug clerk 
called after him. Lena couldn’t quite make it 
out, and, did she but know it, neither could Tim. 
It served him, however, to show himself in good 
178 


Father Bernard’s Parish 


spirits, and entirely indifferent to Miss Schramin’s 
actions. If she chose to accept the attentions of 
another, it was of no consequence to him. That 
was the impression that Tim was trying to con- 
vey, but Lena merely gathered that he was trying 
to convey it. 

Even Francisco became aware of Tim’s inten- 
tion. He smiled at Lena in the half light. “Say, 
you know who walkin’ behin’, don’ you?” he 
asked. Lena giggled. The sound infuriated Tim, 
and his nonchalant air slipped away from him in 
an instant. He could have punched Francisco’s 
head with great satisfaction. 

“You don’ lika da loud mouth Ilka that, do 
you?” the young Italian inquired. There was 
something peculiarly caressing in his own in- 
tonations. 

“You talk so soft,” she said, looking up at 
him with a turn of her head sufficiently marked 
to be observed from the rear. 

“That ees for because I don’ wanta no one 
but you to hear me?” he answered, and bent to 
her ear in a very devoted manner. It was not 
the Tuscan tongue that he was speaking, but 
the “bocca Romana” probably puts a liquid 
note into all languages. Besides, Francisco was 
in love. Tim caught only an offensive murmur. 
Lena heard the music of his voice, and yet she 
179 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

missed in it a certain masculine ring that Tim’s 
rougher tones carried. This was agreeable, 
though, in its way, and she responded to it 
suitably. Francisco fancied that he was getting 
on famously. He, too, felt the excitement of 
having Tim so close behind. 

wanta you to geeve me thees,” he said, 
catching one of the dark curls at the back of 
Lena’s neck. 

She moved her head away and pulled the curl 
out of his hand, but she was aware of Tim and 
she laughed. Francisco became insistent; he 
even took out his knife with some ostentation. 
At Lena’s door they stopped, and Tim passed 
them, turbulent, contemptuous. 

Hello, Tim!” Lena called. 

He appeared not to hear her at first, then 
suddenly he wheeled and came up to them, 
fumbling in his pocket as he did so. He didn’t 
notice Lena, but looked straight at Francisco. 

‘‘This’ll save you trouble, and I ain’t got no 
use for it,” he said, and handed him a small 
folded paper. 

Lena looked a trifle disconcerted, but Tim was 
gone before she could speak. She knew what 
was in the little paper, and, quick as thought, she 
snatched it from the Italian, who was still, in 
some surprise, looking after Tim. 

i8o 


Father Bernard’s Parish 


‘‘Say, what you do? Geeve it me back!” he 
cried, but Lena was very positive in refusal. 

“Aha, I know what it ees,” he declared. “You 
have geeve heem a curl, and he return eet to me, 
for because he see you lika me so much.” 

Lena was still a little flustered by Tim’s masterly 
stroke. She was angry, of course, but she couldn’t 
help feeling respect for a man who could play 
such a dashing game. 

Francisco made a few futile attempts to take 
the paper from her, but desisted at last. “Never 
mind. Tell heem I lika better da one I cut for 
myself.” 

“You must think I want to get bald-headed,” 
Lena remarked. 

“No, I don’ theenk,” he said; “but I can’t 
help to wanta one of those curl. They are so 
pretty, lika the flower which bloom close on the 
stem.” 

This remark helped to restore Lena’s equanim- 
ity; she liked his occasional bits of imagery — 
such adornments of speech were uncommon 
among her admirers. Certainly they were not 
affected by Tim, and Mr. Donnelly’s conversa- 
tional style, though florid enough, was not dis- 
tinguished by grace. 

Donnelly was becoming more and more assidu- 
ous in his attentions to Lena. The girl attracted 
i8i 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

him strongly, and filled his thoughts to the exclu- 
sion of trade itself at times. Business had not 
developed with him as rapidly as he had hoped, 
and the contemplation of ways and means grew 
as necessary as it was depressing. He managed 
to pay his room rent with regularity, for he felt 
that Mrs. Halligan’s good opinion was of value to 
him, and he had always sufficient cash on hand 
to pursue his attentions to Lena, but there were 
certain large liabilities which he had no hopes of 
being able to discharge, and the remembrance of 
them lowered his spirits. 

However, if Donnelly’s spirits were depressed, 
Schramin’s were no less so. He had not lost 
all of his customers, to be sure, but so consider- 
able a number had gone over to his rival, that a 
living, which had before been scanty, was fast 
becoming impossible. So Schramin’s thoughts 
were also given to ways and means, and, curiously 
enough, Lena figured in his reflections as con- 
spicuously as she did in Donnelly’s. 

Schramin had observed the new butcher’s at- 
tentions to his daughter, and had been inclined 
to forbid the girl to receive them, for he exercised 
a form of paternal authority mediaeval in its 
absolutism, which Lena respected from a habit, 
whether personal or inherited it would be dif- 
ficult to say. There were primitive qualities 
182 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

about the Schramins that suggested peculiar an- 
cestral conditions. 

As Schramin the elder meditated upon Don- 
nelly, however, it occurred to him that it might 
be possible, with Lena’s assistance, to exert a 
certain sort of pressure upon the young man, 
and that it would be unwise to end an acquain- 
tance so useful in promise. So Donnelly’s invita- 
tions were accepted by Lena whenever she lacked 
other means of amusement, and the neighbor- 
hood gossiped about what Schramin would do 
if he knew she was out with his rival in trade. 
Even Lena herself imagined that her father 
would disapprove of the affair, and accordingly 
kept it upon clandestine lines, while Schramin 
made his observations with equal secrecy, and 
began to regard her as a financial asset of no 
mean importance. He had meant to be silent 
in the matter until Donnelly should approach 
him, but he was hampered in the execution of 
his plan by an assortment of little Schramins, 
all requiring to be fed with disastrous regularity. 
His wife had a habit of casting the responsibility 
of the situation upon him in a way that was ex- 
asperating beyond even her husband’s power of 
expression. 

'H’m sure I don’t know what you’re goin’ to 
do, Mr. Schramin,” she often remarked in her 
small, melancholy voice. 

183 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

‘‘Shut up!’’ Schramin invariably remarked in 
a voice that was neither small nor melancholy. 

He was driven to action, nevertheless, and one 
sultry day, after market hours, he walked over 
to Donnelly’s “Palace of Meats” and went in. 
The proprietor was going over his books, and 
stood with his back to the entrance. Schramin 
rested his big hands on the counter and leaned 
forward, waiting. The silence attracted Don- 
nelly’s attention, and he turned to see what the 
newcomer was about. When he caught sight of 
the visitor his surprise was mixed with alarm, for 
Schramin looked forbidding enough, and capable 
of any dark deed. 

“Well, sir, what can I do for you?” Donnelly 
asked, standing well back from the counter. 

“What do you think of consolidating?” said 
Schramin, coming to his point at once, and fixing 
the young man with his fierce glance. 

Donnelly’s face relaxed into a brief smile of 
satisfaction. No offer could have been more 
timely, for the consideration of his books had not 
enlivened him. This fact must not be made evi- 
dent, however, for the triumph of having Schramin 
make overtures to him was great, and he meant 
to enjoy its full flavor. 

“Consolidating!” he repeated. “That’s all 
very well for you, but what would I be getting 
out of it ?” 


184 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

Schramin glared. "‘If you want to do it, say 
so — if you don’t, leave it alone,” he said, in a 
tone that Donnelly could not but find alarming. 

“Now, there’s no use getting worked up over 
this,” he commented. “What we want to do 
is to have a plain, businesslike talk about it. Of 
course, being a young man, and having made my 
start, I ain’t looking for any broken-down busi- 
ness to hitch on to mine, and if you are thinking 
of consolidation, I suppose, of course, you’ve 
got some sort of inducement that will make it 
worth my while.” 

Schramin was not a man to waste words; he 
had but one inducement to offer, and he produced 
it. “How about a wife?” he asked tersely. 

Donnelly was speechless for a moment. The 
idea had not suggested itself to him. “You 
think she would ?” he asked enigmatically. 

“She’ll do what I tell her,” said Schramin. 

Donnelly’s assurance returned to him. “Not 
that I think the young lady would make any 
serious difficulty if the matter was entirely sepa- 
rate from business interests,” he said. 

“All right, I don’t tell her nothing,” Schramin 
agreed at once. 

At this the lover demurred. “I couldn’t con- 
descend to deception of no kind,” he said; “and 
if she takes me as a partner in matrimony, it 

185 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

must be with the understanding that in so doing, 
she will be building up the business of her father 
and following out his wishes.’’ 

'‘I’ll tell her to take you, then,” said Schramin. 

"That’s not exactly the delicate way to put 
the thing,” Donnelly objected. 

"You want her?” Schramin asked, and seeing 
that the man was becoming irritable, Donnelly 
admitted that he did. 

"You’ll get her when we consolidate,” Schramin 
promised, but the other was suspicious. 

"I’ll get her first, and consolidate afterward.” 

"You’ll get her when I say, or not at all,” 
said Schramin, and his expression forced Don- 
nelly to move a step farther back. 

"Oh, very well, have it your own way, then; 
I’m not one to stick at trifles,” he said easily. 

Then the older butcher sketched the plan of 
consolidation as he had worked it out during 
sleepless nights, and the young man employed 
his finest English in maintaining the reputation 
of the "Palace of Meats.” As for his books, he 
realized that he would have to make certain 
alterations in them before they could be sub- 
mitted to Schramin, but he believed in the com- 
mercial value of optimism, and spoke glowingly 
of the prospects of his business. 

Schramin held oratory in Spartan contempt, 
1 86 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

and found his prospective partner not at all to 
his taste. Still, ‘‘business is business,” so the 
next step must be the instructing of Lena. It 
was not his custom to reach a subject by tact- 
ful approaches, so he chose neither his time nor 
his words, and, in consequence, was seldom mis- 
understood. 

Lena was going out to meet Francisco that eve- 
ning, and by a mere chance she and her father 
were alone, or, rather, not entirely alone, for Mrs. 
Schramin sat over on one side under the light. 
Schramin didn’t count her, though, and neither 
did Lena, yet, somehow, her tone always grew 
gentler when she spoke to her stepmother. The 
poor woman’s uncomplaining meekness appealed 
to her strongly. 

It was a bare, dingy room without any of 
the offensive adornment of furnishing that dis- 
tinguished the dwellings of the neighborhood 
and gave, despite their offensiveness, a suggestion 
of prosperity and the pleasure of life. The Schra- 
mins had never been prosperous, and what plea- 
sure they had was not found in their home. Mrs. 
Schramin was the only person who stayed in 
it, and it typified her — colorless and untidy. 
Schramin lived in his store, and the little 
Schramins in the street. Lena, vivid reminder 
of an earlier union, had made another sphere 
187 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

for herself from the vantage-point of Zuker- 
man’s much-frequented lunch-room. Yet, not- 
withstanding the disjointed life they all lived, 
there was an influence that held them together, 
and that was Schramin himself. He spoke sel- 
dom, yet always to the point, and when he spoke 
he was obeyed, for his ideas of paternal authority 
and power were ameliorated by no sentimentality 
as to obligation and responsibility. Occasionally 
some foolish, half-American young Schramin for- 
got this, and always regretted doing so. 

Lena, whose beginnings lay deep in old Polish 
blood, gave it due recognition with a passivity 
that could only be explained as racial in a young 
woman who flaunted so gayly in the light of ad- 
miration, or was tossed so wildly by the gusts 
of her own will or desire. 

She had put on the lace dress, and was occupied 
in getting her feet into a very tight pair of slip- 
pers. 

‘‘You’ll look good in them, Lena,” Mrs. 
Schramin said. She considered Lena and all her 
belongings with admiration. 

“If I can’t get ’em on I’ll give ’em to you,” 
Lena said in a kindly tone. 

Mrs. Schramin sighed and shook her head. 
“People would laugh,” she said, not even wonder- 
ing why the frivolities of life should seem so in- 
188 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

congruous in connection with herself. She watched 
Lena with interest as she continued her struggles. 
At last the slippers were on, and Lena stamped 
her feet in them triumphantly. They hurt her, 
but she did not give to them nor limp. 

‘‘How much was they, Lena?” 

“Two sixty-five,” said Lena. 

At that her father, who was looking on in his 
customary glowering silence, snarled out an ex- 
clamation. “And you waste that money on them 
things ? They ain’t even shoes.” 

“I work for it,” Lena asserted boldly. 

He let the matter go, for he had something 
else to say to her. Looking at him, Lena felt un- 
easy. She saw that his mind was dwelling upon 
her, and very wisely she started off*, hoping to 
get to the door before he could put his thought 
into speech. 

He was too quick for her. ‘^Come here and 
shut the door,” he called out just as she was on 
the point of leaving the danger zone. 

She hesitated. One step more, one swift flight 
down the stairs, and she would be beyond the 
sound of his voice. Schramin said no more. His 
very silence was commanding, it was so sure of 
obedience. 

Lena turned back and shut the door. “What 
do you want ? ” she asked sullenly. 

189 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

Mrs. Schramin looked up with some show of 
anxiety in her dull face. It always distressed 
her to hear Schramin deal with Lena. 

He did not state immediately what he wanted. 
^‘Where are you going?” he demanded. 

‘^Out,” said Lena. She always gave informa- 
tion as to her movements very grudgingly. 

‘‘With that Irish Halligan?” 

“What’s the harm in bein’ Irish?” she in- 
quired. 

“Answer me when I speak to you,” her father 
roared. 

Mrs. Schramin felt vaguely disturbed, for he 
had a way of being diffusive in his attentions 
when he employed that tone. 

“No, I’m not goin’ with Tim,” said Lena 
calmly. 

“With the Italian, then?” 

“Yes. I don’t care if I am.” 

“Better drop that dago. To-day I made ar- 
rangements for you to get married,” Schramin 
said. 

She looked at him in absolute astonishment. 
“For me to get married ? To who ?” 

“To that fellow Donnelly. I’ll have to make 
him consolidate, or I’ll be froze out.” 

The name of Donnelly confounded her. She 
was silent for a full minute, her eyes fixed upon 
190 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

her father with a puzzled expression: “You’re 
jokin’,” she said at last. 

“I ain’t a joker,” he reminded her. 

“I’d rather — I’d rather — ” She hesitated, un- 
certain what fate to prefer. “I’d kill him. That’s 
what I’d do,” she finished venomously. 

Schramin laughed. 

“I’m not goin’ to marry him, not to keep you 
nor nobody from bein’ froze out!” she cried at 
last, breaking the silence that had fallen. 

“You’ll marry him all right,” he said, and at 
his low, determined tone her heart seemed to 
stand still for a moment. After all, she was but 
a girl, with only her defiant courage to protect 
her, and she looked very slight, and very young 
as she faced the dark resolution of her father’s 
face. 


CHAPTER XI 


) Lena meditated upon her father’s plan it 



-ZJl seemed to her more and more intolerable. 
Donnelly was well enough as a means of an- 
noyance to Tim or Francisco, but the idea of 
marrying him filled her with revulsion. She 
could have stood violence better than his smug 
complacency. When he came for lunch next 
day she was marked in her avoidance of him. 
In vain he called her as she passed. She seemed 
quite unaware of his presence, so that finally a 
laugh at his expense went around the room. 
Somewhat disgruntled, he paid for his lunch, 
but as he went out he had an unexpected visita- 
tion of fortune, for he caught Lena at the door. 
She had stayed a trifle too long talking to a more 
favored customer. Donnelly shut the screen 
door behind him, and she could not avoid speak- 
ing to him. 

^‘You’re getting too shy with me,” he said. 

“Shy!” her lip curled. 

He wondered whether old Schramin had told 
her yet. He rather thought she knew, and the 
next minute he was sure that she did, for she 


192 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

turned her full gaze upon him and looked him 
over. Then he himself was seized with an un- 
accountable fit of timidity, so disconcerting was 
her regard. He rallied himself with an effort. 

‘‘ril call for you to-night, ’’ he told her with a 
proprietary air. 

‘‘That’s kind of you,” said Lena. “Be sure 
you don’t come too early because you’ll have to 
wait till I get back.” 

“Where are you going?” he asked, falling un- 
suspectingly into her trap. 

“I’ll be out with a gentleman friend till twelve,” 
she replied airily. “But you can talk business 
with my father while you’re waitin’ to see me.” 

That told him that she knew their plan. He 
feared that Schramin had not put the matter 
tactfully. 

“Say, Lena, this is not, so to speak, a business 
deal I’m talking about,” he said meaningly. 

“What is it?” 

“Well, of course, that’s all the old man is 
thinking about, and, to satisfy him, I agreed to 
it on them terms. But you and me is a different 
proposition.” 

“You can speak for yourself,” said Lena. 
“If I ever married you it would be pure busi- 
ness ? ” 

He chose to consider this a witticism. “And 
193 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

you wouldn’t be doing such a bad thing, let me 
tell you, to go into partnership with Donnelly 
of the Palace of Meats.” 

‘‘What’s your weekly sales she inquired. 

“Say, but ain’t you got an eye for business!” 
he exclaimed with affected admiration. “I want 
you to tell that guy you’re going with to- 
night that you’ve got a date with me,” he an- 
nounced suddenly in a dictatorial manner that 
infuriated Lena. 

“You’re off your base,” she declared, and 
threw him such a look that his self-confidence 
was temporarily shaken. 

“Wouldn’t you like a supper down-town at 
one of the swell restaurants?” he suggested. 

Lena reflected. She would like that very much 
indeed. “If I could choose my own company,” 
she said with indifference. 

Donnelly smiled; he saw his opportunity. 
“Well now, there’s no use choosing any one finan- 
cially unable to liquidate the bill,” he remarked, 
his pomposity returning with the suggestion of 
his superiority over Lena’s other admirers. 
“Make it to-night and you shall have it,” he 
urged. The man irritated Lena. “I’ll make it 
some time when I’ve got nothin’ better to do,” 
she said with condescension and slipped inside 
as another customer was passing out. 

194 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

Donnelly was taken by surprise to find himself 
so suddenly alone. He went olF a little uncer- 
tain as to the progress he was making with Lena 
but he attributed all discouragements to the 
natural coyness of the sex, to which she added 
much individuality of expression. He was in no 
doubt as to his ultimate success, for he believed 
that his personal charms and advantages, coupled 
with the pressure that Schramin would bring to 
bear upon her, would be effective in the end. 
'Ht’s going to take money, though,’’ he said to 
himself. He could see that tendency very clearly, 
though he believed that if Schramin held to his 
part of the bargain the matter might be brought 
to a crisis without undue expenditure. 

Lena was thinking mainly of the supper at 
the down-town restaurant. She wished that Tim 
or Francisco had money enough to take her there. 

‘'Look what you’re doin’, droppin’ crumbs 
into the custard pie,” Mrs. Zukerman called to 
her harshly. 

“It’s been there since day before yesterday,” 
Lena said with a contemptuous glance. 

“Is that any reason for makin’ it a dead loss 
with the crumbs?” Mrs. Zukerman demanded, 
and, picking up the pie, she tried to remove the 
evidences of the girl’s carelessness. 

“Say, Mis’ Zukerman, what you think of 
195 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

Donnelly?” Lena asked suddenly. Mrs. Zuker- 
man almost dropped the custard confection in 
her surprise, for Lena did not often draw out 
her opinion. 

‘‘He’s a good eater, all right,” she ventured 
cautiously. “Twenty-five cents every day this 
week, already.” 

“You like him?” Lena asked, directing her 
employer’s thought. 

“Well, I ain’t sayin’ I don’t like him.” 

“How would he do for a husband ?” 

“Oh, for a husband ! That’s another thing. 
I thought you was askin’ how I like him for a 
customer.” 

“Anybody’ll do for a customer,” said Lena. 

“Sure,” the older woman agreed. “Well, for 
a husband, now, of course, if it wasn’t no others 
handy. But I ain’t thinkin’ of no more husband 
with Zukerman still livin’, already.” 

Lena’s laughter advised Mrs. Zukerman of her 
mistake. “It’s me I’m talkin’ about.” 

“Ach, why didn’t you say so ?” 

“My father wants me to marry him,” Lena 
said. Schramin had not enjoined secrecy upon 
her, and she was too outraged by his plans to 
care whether he minded her talking about them 
or not. 

Her employer looked at her astounded. “Is 
196 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

Donnelly willin’ ?” she asked, when the state- 
merit had been quite absorbed by her under- 
standing. 

*‘Well, I should say,” Lena replied with as- 
surance. 

“So!” Mrs. Zukerman exclaimed and digested 
the idea in silence. At last Lena was moved by 
a sudden thought. “I don’t care if you tell 
Mrs. Halligan that about Donnelly, for she 
thinks Fm after Tim.” 

Mrs. Zukerman shook her head. “It ain’t no 
use, Lena. Mrs. Halligan wouldn’t believe it.” 

“I’ve a great mind to marry him and show 
her,” said Lena angrily. 

Mrs. Zukerman’s intellect grew suddenly active, 
and she saw in fancy her lunch-room minus its 
chief attraction. “Lena, you’re too young to get 
married, already,” she said decidedly. 

Lena’s quick ear detected a hint of anxiety in 
her voice. “I’m thinkin’ of it; I don’t get enough 
pay hardly to keep me in shoes,” she said. 

The proprietress of the lunch-room realized 
with some consternation the bearing of this re- 
mark. “And look at the fancy shoes you are 
always buyin’ 1” she cried with an exasperated air. 

“How about a raise if I don’t get married?” 
Lena asked, returning to the main current of 
their talk. 


197 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

‘‘Lena, you know I give you one raise, already,’^ 
Mrs. Zukerman exclaimed, protest and tears min- 
gling in her voice. “Anyway, this war is about 
to ruin me, the way all the things is goin’ up.” 

“Nothin’s gone up yet,” Lena declared. 

“Ain’t I said ‘is goin’ ? Sure, don’t you un- 
derstand English ?” Mrs. Zukerman inquired ner- 
vously. 

“I understand it all right if you say what I 
want to hear,” Lena replied. 

“I can’t say that, Lena. You don’t know 
what kind of expenses I am havin’ with Zuker- 
man all the time.” 

“Leave him,” Lena counselled. 

“Sure, I can’t get nowhere he wouldn’t come. 
And, with the store and all, I can’t be runnin’ 
away for more than over a Sunday without 
havin’ to come back. I was talkin’ to a young 
man that wants to get me a divorce, but he 
charges so high it’s maybe cheaper to keep Zuker- 
man than to pay down so much money at one 
time.” 

“I’d shake him fast enough,” Lena declared, 
and by the tone in which she spoke Mrs. Zuker- 
man perceived that her mind had been temporarily 
diverted from the matter of getting her pay in- 
creased. 

Poor Mrs. Zukerman, between her husband 
198 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

and her helper, did not lead an enviable existence. 
The war, also, made her anxious as to the con- 
tinuance of such prosperity as she had attained, 
for the current of opinion against Germany and 
the Germans was running pretty strong. No 
wonder, therefore, that she felt the importance 
of keeping Lena to counteract the influence of 
her own unpopular nationality. 

Already she had lost one customer on account 
of the war, though his defection was directly 
due to Lena, the very magnet that held the 
others. Old Veinig was eating elsewhere. He 
had no intention of being parboiled again as a 
dramatic climax to Lena’s display of war-time 
enthusiasm. Mrs. Zukerman took his departure 
to heart, and meant to speak to him about it 
if ever she had the chance. Veinig did not pass 
her door, though, and she hesitated about going 
into his shop. 

One morning, however, after the early business 
and before the lunch hour, she saw Harry Veinig 
sitting in contemplative attitude upon her curb- 
ing so she hurried to the door and called to him. 

Harry turned. ‘‘What you want?” he in- 
quired. 

Mrs. Zukerman beckoned mysteriously and 
he ran into the bake-shop, though he did not like 
to go there, for he felt a sort of antipathy for 
199 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

Lena. The proprietress sat down sideways by 
one of the vacant tables and, reaching back, 
secured a doughnut from the counter. It looked 
good but Harry shook his head, 
don’t want it,” he said. 

‘‘Then take one of them little frosted cakes 
on the glass case.” 

A moment he stood his ground, but the cakes 
had pink scrolls around them. He stepped to 
the counter, and took one of the finest. Then 
he looked at Mrs. Zukerman with some em- 
barrassment and said: ‘‘Thank you.” 

“But you’re a nice little feller,” she said gently, 
maternal instinct keenly alive in her heart, for, 
dull and heavy as was her fancy, she yet saw 
another child in Harry’s pinched face. He didn’t 
know that, of course; he thought she was being 
sorry for his humped back, and he didn’t like it. 
He almost wished he had not taken the cake, 
though he couldn’t quite bring himself to the 
point of putting it in the dish again. “You 
don’t look like you’re gettin’ proper food,” she 
said unwisely. 

Harry’s face expressed his resentment of the 
speech. “I get more than I want; I put up din- 
ner ev’ry day.” 

“Who cooks it?” Mrs. Zukerman asked curi- 
ously. 


200 


Father Bernard’s Parish 


‘‘My father does when he finishes his work.” 

“Ach,” she said, nothing more, but it expressed 
her emotion. 

“He don’t take you with him when he goes 
for lunch,” she remarked presently. 

“I eat the dinner that’s left,” Harry volun- 
teered. 

“Poor child!” she exclaimed, and again she 
regarded him with the expression that he did not 
like. 

“Where is your father eatin’ his lunch now, 
Harry?” she asked, at last coming to the matter 
that was in her mind when she had called the 
boy in. 

“Down the street,” said Harry, motioning 
with his head. 

Mrs. Zukerman knew the place. “He’ll not 
get nothin’ he likes in such a lunch-room as 
that 1” she cried. 

“He likes it fine. He says there’s a nice, 
decent waitin’ girl in there.” 

Mrs. Zukerman leaned over in some excitement. 
“Now, Harry, that’s just what I want to talk 
to you about,” she said. “You know your father 
ought not to lay up what Lena done just by ac- 
cident, already.” 

Harry looked adamantine. “I don’t like Lena, 
neither,” he declared. 


201 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

‘‘There ain’t no harm in Lena. Sure your 
father is got too much sense to get mad about 
what a poor girl done just by way of a joke.” 

“You said it was a accident,” he reminded 
her. 

“Maybe I did, and maybe it’s both, but I 
want you to tell him I didn’t think one of my 
own country would be the first to leave me, and 
hard times cornin’ on with the war.” 

Harry looked at her speculatively. “Are you 
a German ?” he asked. 

Mrs. Zukerman had recently fallen into the 
habit of avoiding the direct answer to this ques- 
tion. “German- American,” she announced again. 

“My father’s for the Kaiser, straight out,” 
said Harry. 

“Sure, I’m for the Kaiser, if there’s anything 
I can do, but there’s no use injurin’ trade and 
goin’ against what the President says. You 
know that, Harry. They teach you in the schools 
to salute the flag, don’t they?” 

Harry acknowledged that they did. “I’m an 
American, all right,” he declared. 

“That’s a grand thing to be,” she told him. 
“And now you must try to keep your father from 
behavin’ so foolish. Can you remember to tell 
him I hope he’ll excuse Lena’s ugly spirit and 
come back to his regular eatin’ place?” 


202 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

The little boy looked up shrewdly. ‘Tt wasn’t 
no accident, then, nor no joke neither.” 

Mrs. Zukerman marvelled at his astuteness, 
but attempted no further explanation. 

‘Til tell him what you say,” Harry promised. 
His voice was dispassionate, though, in spite of 
the frosted cake, which was now fast getting 
sticky in his hand. He wanted to go out and 
eat it in peace, but there was something on his 
mind. He walked to the door, then paused and 
looked around the store. “Where’s Lena?” he 
asked. 

. Mrs. Zukerman sighed. “Harry, I can’t keep 
Lena in the store; as soon as she wants to she 
runs out, already.” 

Harry came up to Mrs. Zukerman with a con- 
fidential air. “Tell her Tim’s got another girl,” 
he said. 

“For why do I tell her that? 

“You tell her,” he insisted. 

“Well,” the lady agreed, for Harry had as- 
sumed a masculine tone of authority which she 
was accustomed to respect. “Come in again 
some time,” she said as he went out. She liked 
children. 

Harry went around the corner to eat his cake 
where she couldn’t get at him again. It was very 
good, and the contentment of the moment was 
203 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

furthered by satisfaction over hi5 diplomatic mes- 
sage to Lena. 

He could scarcely contain himself until the 
evening, and when the day closed he stood in 
wait for Tim’s wagon just where it usually turned 
off for the stable. The expressman was late. 
The night was coming on, and Harry was just 
making up his mind to go home again when he 
saw Tim driving across the street. The wagon 
was painted yellow, and had certain peculiarities 
of its own, so that Harry would have known it 
anywhere, even over in Brooklyn or up in the 
Bronx. Tim didn’t see the boy until he rose 
from the curbstone and stood out in the road- 
way. 

‘‘Hello, guv’nor,” Tim called, and reined in 
to let Harry scramble up to the seat. 

“Been workin’ some?” 

“Bet your head,” Tim replied. 

He was tired, but the little fellow’s welcome 
and companionship had a soothing effect upon 
him. It was cool, too, and “stars were in the 
quiet skies” that faced them as they went over 
toward the river. Tim was not having a very 
exhilarating life just at that period, for, when he 
was not sullen over Lena’s treatment of him, he 
was struggling with his determination to show 
her that he could keep sober if he tried, and he 
204 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

was beginning to get discouraged over the meagre- 
ness of his reward. 

Harry didn’t tell his news at once; he waited 
until Tim had put up the horse, and they were 
going home together. Then he said: ‘T was 
to Zukerman’s to-day.” 

‘‘Did Lena send me any message?” 

“Lena was out.” 

“Why don’t you speak up, if you’ve got any- 
thing to tell?” Tim said impatiently. 

Harry skipped a little in his glee. “I told Mrs. 
Zukerman you had another girl, and I told her 
to tell Lena,” he announced. 

Tim smiled slowly. The expedient of getting 
another girl had not occurred to him. Indeed, 
his mind was too much absorbed with Lena for 
the success of any such scheme, but he realized 
that Harry had played a trump-card. “That’s 
some brains!” he exclaimed. 

Harry skipped again; he was getting very 
proud of his brain work. 

“Why don’t you get another girl, Tim?” he 
asked. 

Tim shook his head. “They cost too much, and 
they’re too silly.” 

“You’re right,” Harry answered. But for 
Lena they would both be of the same mind on 
the subject of the entire sex. 

205 


Father Bernard’s Parish 


Tim saw Lena that very evening, for Mrs. 
Zukerman delivered Harry’s message and the 
young woman, while not crediting the story, 
was determined to find out about it for herself. 
It was easy enough for her to see Tim for she 
knew well where he usually took his stand, wait- 
ing for her to go by. Having bribed one of the 
little Schramins, therefore, to detain Francisco, 
with whom, in spite of her father’s wishes, she 
still managed to consort, she strolled down the 
street alone, ostensibly meditative and unde- 
signing. She paused to look in at a window just 
next to the one by which Tim was standing. He 
couldn’t resist her, but stepped out and joined her. 

She started visibly. ‘‘What are you cornin’ up 
that way for, like a ghost.?” she demanded. 

“If you was thinkin’ of me like I am of you 
it wouldn’t scare you to see me,” Tim remarked 
in an aggrieved tone. 

Lena smiled; he had given her the information 
that she wanted and there was really no reason 
for continuing the conversation. That she did 
continue it was a tribute to Tim of which he was 
wholly unconscious. Perhaps she thought it help- 
ful to Francisco to be kept waiting. 

At any rate, she showed no signs of moving 
on just then. “No wonder I was scared. I 
haven’t seen you in so long,” she answered. 

206 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

‘‘You don’t want to see me.” 

Her expression became haughty. “I ain’t 
goin’ to run after you, and if you don’t want to 
come around me I can’t help it.” 

“What’s the use of cornin’ ? You’d just make 
a fool of me before the Eyetalian.” 

“Who made a fool of me the other night, 
handin’ over my hair right in my face.f^” 

“I don’t want what’s gettin’ so cheap,” Tim 
growled. 

“It won’t be cheap to you again,” said Lena. 

He looked humbled for a moment. “I didn’t 
mean nothin’, Lena, but I can’t stand the way 
you’re doin’.” 

“What’s wrong now ?” 

Tim broke out at that. “I’m givin’ you the 
best I got, and one day you pick it up, and the 
next you’re throwin’ it aside, and off with some 
other feller. I’ll do somethin’ soon he won’t 
get over in a hurry.” 

“Who? Donnelly?” 

“Donnelly!” cried Tim with scorn. 

“That’s what I want to tell you about; my 
father has got it all fixed up for me and Donnelly 
to get married.” 

“Donnelly?” said Tim again, and this time 
there was nothing but astonishment in his voice. 
“You — ^you goin’ to do it?” he asked. 

207 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

‘‘I don’t know,” she said, with an unexpected 
tremor that surprised them both and spoke 
much for the dominion of the parental Schramin. 

‘‘I’ll punch him to a jelly first,” Tim declared, 
and the speech brought Lena the pleasant sense 
of protection which his muscular potentiality al- 
ways gave her. 

She didn’t mean to throw away the advan- 
tageous effect of Donnelly’s aspirations, however, 
so she said admiringly: “He’s got the cash, all 
right.” 

Tim grit his teeth. “What’s the use of my 
keepin’ sober for you, Lena 

“For me? I thought you had another girl.” 

“Aw, you know I ain’t !” he cried. “Come on, 
let’s go down the street.” 

Lena shook her head. “No. I’m late now.” 

“For what?” 

“Francisco is goin’ to take me to the movies.” 

Tim turned away from her with an exclama- 
tion too forceful for repetition. She laughed and 
ran home in a very tranquil humor indeed. 

As for Tim, his efforts at sobriety might have 
ended just there had not little Harry come up, 
eager for an account of what had happened. He 
had been hunting for Tim, and had found him 
just as Lena appeared upon the scene. He was 
disappointed, but he sat down a short way off, 
208 


Father Bernard’s Parish 


watching the interview and straining his ears to 
overhear. He did not like the way it ended, for 
Lena had seemed too triumphant for Tim’s well- 
being. * 

“Did you make out to her?” he asked, anx- 
iously, looking at Tim. 

“About what ?” 

“About the girl I said you had.” 

“Aw, she knows that’s foolishness,” said Tim. 

Harry was angry. He had been so proud of 
his idea. “There ain’t any use tryin’ to help 
you!” he exclaimed. 

“You’re nothin’ but a kid; you don’t know 
what you’re talkin’ about,” poor Tim replied. 

“You said I had a head on me,” Harry re- 
minded him. “And I’ll tell you somethin’ else. 
What do you s’pose Lena come after you to-night 
for ?” 

“She just ran acrost me.” 

“Ain’t you been here every night, and did 
she ever run acrost you before?” 

Tim admitted that she had not. 

“She was after you all right.” 

“Think so?” asked Tim with dawning con- 
fidence in his adviser. 

“Sure. And you know what for?” 

“Search me!” Tim seldom fathomed Lena’s 
motives. 


209 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

‘‘She came to find out about that girl I said 
you had/’ Harry asserted proudly. 

Tim couldn’t help wondering whether that 
might not be so. “ I want to know ! ” he exclaimed. 

Harry looked at him in despair. “And if you 
could have kept her guessin’ she would have 
dropped the Eyetalian and swung onto you.” 

Tim tried to make some defense of himself, but 
he could think of nothing to say, for he saw now 
that he had made a mistake. “Come on, let’s 
get to the soft-drink counter !” he exclaimed, turn- 
ing away from the severity of Harry’s eye. 


210 


CHAPTER XII 


G eorge WAGNER began to fear that he 
would not see Annie again. Day followed 
day, yet she did not come to the drug-store, 
nor did he catch a glimpse of her upon the street 
in the many idle minutes that he spent taking 
observations from the door. He longed to ask 
her brother about her, but somehow Tim’s matter- 
of-course omission of Annie from his conversa- 
tion made it difficult for George to mention her 
name. At last one night he did it, in a very off- 
hand manner, or so he fancied. 

‘Hs your sister sick.?” he asked. 

'‘No, Annie ain’t sick. Who said she was?” 
"Nobody, but I haven’t seen her passing in 
some time.” 

"You must have a lot to do if you can watch 
to see all the girls pass,” Tim commented. 

George suddenly decided to let in a little light 
upon his friend. "I don’t watch to see them all 
pass,” he said with a smile. 

Tim looked at him in surprise. "You don’t 
mean to say you’re stuck on Annie!” 

"Why shouldn’t I mean it?” 


2II 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

‘*0h, well, you know she’s never thought of 
anything of the kind.” 

Wagner couldn’t help hoping that the state- 
ment was not altogether true, but he didn’t say 
so, and Tim went on: ‘‘You ought to go to the 
delicatessen and talk to Oscar Hauser. He’ll 
tell you it ain’t any use to be stuck on Annie. 
The way that feller is brought her crackers and 
canned goods is a caution.” 

George did not consider that his case was 
similar to Oscar Hauser’s, and the very thought 
of offering canned goods to Annie was unpleasant 
to him, but again he did not voice his ideas on 
the subject. 

“Oscar hangs round to talk to her every night 
he can get off,” Tim volunteered. 

“How does he get the chance?” 

“He’s my mother’s lodger.” 

“Oh,” said George, and wished that he were so 
fortunately placed. /‘I haven’t seen her since last 
Monday a week ago,” he said in a melancholy tone. 

“What’s the use of seein’ her any time ?” Tim 
asked philosophically. 

“What’s the use of your watching for Lena 
Schramin every night?” George returned. 

At this Tim laughed. “I’ll tell you what I’ll 
do,” he said, “I’ll send her down here to-morrow 
night to get me somethin’.” 


212 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

*'Say, you’re all right!” George exclaimed 
warmly. 

“Don’t mention it,” said Tim. “And don’t 
you make no complaint to me neither when she 
slips olF to the convent. As for Lena,” he began, 
resuming the discussion of his own affairs, “I 
ain’t goin’ to stand her airs with that dago much 
longer.” 

George found it hard to give his attention 
further. He was to see Annie the next night, 
and he couldn’t help planning the meeting even 
while his companion was calling down curses 
upon the Italian and making vague prophecies 
of coming disaster. Tim was conscious of a 
lack of interest in his listener, and went off be- 
fore long, leaving George free to go through all 
sorts of imaginary interviews with Annie. 

“I say, don’t forget your promise,” he called 
as Tim reached the door. 

“I ain’t goin’ to forget it,” said Tim, and he 
didn’t. He even produced a dime next evening, 
and asked his sister to get him a box of cough- 
drops. Annie’s heart beat quite fast at the 
thought of going to the drug-store, but she 
couldn’t repress her surprise at Tim’s request. 

“I never heard you complain before,” she said 
anxiously. 

“I ain’t complainin’.” 

213 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

‘‘But your throat must be bad if you are asking 
for cough-drops.” 

“No, it ain’t bad.” Tim was fast losing pa- 
tience. He had not thought that the service he 
had offered to perform for his friend would pre- 
sent such difficulties, and, seeing Annie about to 
raise further question as to the state of his health, 
he said in an injured tone: “Never mind, then, 
if you don’t want to take a few steps for your 
brother when he comes home from work, you 
needn’t to.” 

“You know I don’t mind going for you, Tim,” 
said Annie, and hoped that he did not know how 
much she wanted to go. “It seemed so odd, 
though, your asking for cough-drops.” 

“You can get anything you have a mind to, 
then,” Tim said, forgetting his diplomacy. 

“Why, I suppose cough-drops are really what 
you want if your throat is bad,” she decided. 

“All right, then, get ’em quick,” said Tim, 
glad to wind up the matter. 

Annie started off at that, then, in the doorway 
she stopped for a moment, irresolute. 

“What’s the matter now.^” Tim demanded. 

“Nothing,” she said, but she went into her 
own room and lit the gas by the mirror. It was 
a poor little mirror with a blue cast and an oc- 
casional ripple in it, but Annie, being used to it, 
214 


Father Bernard’s Parish 


was in no way depressed by the dismal reflection 
it revealed. Indeed, she turned' away rather 
well pleased, and went upon Tim’s errand with 
willing feet. 

George was afraid that she was not coming, 
and the putting up of prescriptions from time to 
time, while his thoughts were hanging upon her 
arrival, caused him considerable nervous strain. 
At last, when he had about given up hope, she 
appeared. He had just completed eighteen cap- 
sules of many ingredients, when, upon bringing 
them from the rear of the store for a waiting cus- 
tomer, he found Annie standing by the counter. 

‘‘Do you know how long it is since I’ve seen 
you?” he asked, when the customer had gone. 

“A week last Monday,” said Annie truthfully. 

“You used to come very much oftener. Have 
I said anything that offended you?” 

She looked at him in surprise. “No, not you.” 

“Then somebody else has.” 

She was silent at that. 

“Don’t you think it’s rather hard on me not 
to let me speak to you, or even see you, just be- 
cause another person said something you didn’t 
like?” 

Annie didn’t answer, but she said after a pause: 
“I can’t do as other girls do.” 

“Why can’t you?” 


2IS 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

She didn’t try to explain to him why, but in- 
stead, lifted her eyes to his just a moment. He 
gained courage from her appealing glance, and 
said very earnestly: “I want you to do something 
for me, will you ?” 

can’t promise,” she answered. 

‘‘Don’t you ever forget about the convent?” 
he asked, impatient of the difficulty that met 
him at every turn. 

“I must remember,” said Annie. 

“Why ? You are not obliged to go into it.” 

“No, but I’ve chosen the life, and I don’t like 
people to be changeable.” 

“I should think you could do as you pleased, 
so long as you are not in it.” 

“You don’t understand,” she told him. 

“No, thank the Lord, I don’t!” said George, 
moved beyond his usual courtesy. “I don’t 
want to understand a religion that can shut a 
young girl up in a prison, and make her whole 
life nothing but a dreary waste.” 

“It wouldn’t be that,” said Annie loyally. 

“Wouldn’t it ?” he asked in so pointed a man- 
ner that she suddenly knew in her heart he was 
right. 

“What I want you to do,” said Wagner, “is 
to put your plans about the convent out of your 
mind for once, and be as free to do and say what 
216 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

you please as other girls arc, just for one after- 
noon/’ 

‘‘When?” she asked, and he deplored the fate 
that sent a customer into the store at that mo- 
ment. He could only hope that he would not be 
required to make up another prescription. 

“Wait just a minute,” he begged in a low voice, 
and was ofF before she could refuse his request. 

Annie sat down on a revolving stool, and tried 
to think, yet she knew that she would do what 
he was going to ask her. When George came 
back she did not look at him, but waited for 
him to speak. 

“I am to have to-morrow afternoon off, and 
I want you to go to the park with me and hear 
the music,” he said eagerly. 

Never had Annie heard of a plan that seemed 
to her so delightful, yet she did not answer at 
first. 

“Don’t say no,” Wagner pleaded. 

“I should like to go, but ” 

“Leave out the but.” His tone was very per- 
suasive. 

She tried to convince herself afterward that 
that was the reason she consented, yet she was 
too honest to believe her own argument. She 
was going because she wanted to go, and not 
because he had persuaded her. There was no 
217 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

excuse for her and she knew it, as she leaned 
from her window to catch the air of the summer 
night, cool and damp, but bearing the tang of 
hops from the brewery. 

Scarcely a footstep sounded below, for the 
avenue was asleep, and even the elevated trains 
seldom passed. Still Annie sat looking out, and 
there was nothing nun-like in her meditations, 
as the stars traced their course across the strip 
of sky that tops the street. 

Reality could never be as sweet as those half- 
defined dreams of hers, and yet reality was sweet 
enough when at last she found herself alone with 
George. The park was luminously emerald in 
the afternoon sunlight, and the crowd moving 
steadily onward to the band-stand in the Mall 
was gay in its humor, though intent in purpose. 
Annie felt a little shy at first, but George liked 
her shyness and neither of them talked very 
much. 

can’t tell you how glad I am that you 
came,” he said at length. ‘^Fve wanted so much 
to see you outside of the store, where we would 
not be interrupted every minute by people com- 
ing in.” 

“I sometimes wonder how we ever got to be 
such friends,” Annie told him. 

‘'Don’t you know?” he asked. 

218 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

She said that she did not, but she blushed, 
for there was something about his' speech that 
told even her unaccustomed ears that they were 
upon dangerous ground. 

‘‘May I tell you, then 

“No, if you please,” she answered quickly. 

“But I don’t please, and I’m going to tell you 
anyway.” 

She looked at him entreatingly. “Don’t say 
anything that will spoil this afternoon.” 

“Will it spoil the afternoon to know ” 

“Oh, please keep quiet, there are so many 
people around,” she said, and he laughed. 

“How do you know what I was going to say ?” 

“I don’t,” she replied with dignity. 

At this he laughed again, and said that unless 
she would admit that she knew, he would tell 
her right then and there in spite of all the people 
in New York, so Annie replied that she supposed 
he meant some sort of foolishness. 

“Does it seem foolish to you?” he asked 
gravely, but this she would not answer. 

They found seats on the rapidly filling benches 
in the Mall, and rejoiced in each other’s near- 
ness, waiting beneath the elms that stirred so 
softly in the summer wind, while the violinists 
tuned their instruments and the clarionetists, 
and all the rest of them, practised intervals. 

219 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

Wagner told her about the musicians, and pointed 
out the leader talking with the timpani player, 
while Annie looked where he directed, and hung 
upon his words with gentle flattery. 

At last the concert began, and soon the or- 
chestra swept out upon the ‘‘Blue Danube,” 
and the very spirit of joyousness and youth 
seemed to float upon the strains. 

“How beautiful!” sighed Annie. 

“Fm so glad I made you come,” said George. 
“You won’t like this one so much,” he explained 
regretfully, consulting his programme. “It’s 
classic, I guess.” 

It was “classic,” and the applause was sur- 
prising to the uninitiated. It came from Ger- 
mans of all classes, from Italians and Poles, from 
music-lovers of every condition, scattered here 
and there in the crowd — from Father Bernard, 
seated well in front of the bust of Mozart, and 
happy in the enjoyment of a pleasure which his 
calling had not denied him. Music was neces- 
sary to him at times, for when the sordidness of 
his parish got upon his nerves, his old aestheticism 
asserted itself with an insistence that would not 
be overlooked. 

He had fallen of late into the habit of going 
to the park concerts every Saturday afternoon, 
and went away always greatly refreshed. That 


220 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

particular week had been filled to overflowing 
with trying duties, and he was in sad need of 
his recreation. He took off his hat and leaned 
back, enjoying even the crowd, the bright-colored 
parasols here and there, the low-class foreigners 
rubbing shoulders with well-dressed New Yorkers. 
He liked the atmosphere of good nature that 
prevailed, it all made him feel for the time very 
careless and irresponsible, and, above all things 
else, he loved the music, for that lifted him into 
a realm of fancy that always lured his priestly 
thoughts. There was for him a keen, sensuous 
pleasure in the delicate harmonies, the breezy 
afternoon air, and the overhanging trees swaying 
across the limitless blue above. 

Suddenly the musicians began the barcarole 
from the ‘‘Tales of HolFmann.” Father Bernard 
loved the elusive melody; it brought to him 
the memory of his youth, incomplete and un- 
satisfying, yet full of the possibility of so much 
joy. His gaze wandered absently as he listened*, 
but stopped at a face very innocent and fair. 
How softly rounded was the cheek, how blue 
were the girl’s eyes as she looked up at the man 
beside her ! She might have been a shepherd 
maiden wandering through Arcadian fields, yet 
even as his fancy placed her, the present rushed 
back upon him and he recognized the pair — the 


221 


Father Bernard’s Parish 


girl was Annie Halligan, and the young man was 
the drug-store clerk. 

The priest made certain, then he turned away 
quickly, fearful lest they should discover him, 
and the weight of his office settled upon him once 
more. It is merely a law of nature that opens 
a young girFs heart to love. Th.at he knew very 
well, but what was he to do about it ? Must he 
speak to Annie, or would Annie speak to him ? 
And if she didn’t speak — should he deny her 
right to a life of sacrifice and service because 
of the look that he had seen in her eyes I 

There were nice points involved in his questions, 
yet the priest knew the stress of the long conflict 
he had endured. He knew the cost of his vows — 
the struggle that was needed to keep them. 
He stole another look at Annie, and saw again, 
through her bloom, the clinging frailty of her 
nature. 

The violins ceased, the ‘‘Tales of HoflFmann” 
were told. 

“That’s real pretty,” Annie said. 

“I don’t care for it as much as for some of the 
others,” George confessed. Their own romance 
was being sung in phrases less unusual. When 
the music was over they made their way through 
the crowd and started toward the lake, when 
suddenly Annie stopped. 


222 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

“What’s the matter?” asked George, noticing 
in alarm how white her face had grown. 

“Father Bernard!” she said faintly. 

He turned to look, but the priest’s figure was 
not familiar to him. “I guess you must be mis- 
taken.” 

“He looked right at me,” she told him. 

“Well, what if he did ?” 

“I can’t explain it,” Annie murmured. 

“Forget about him,” said Wagner. He was 
really exasperated that the church and its influ- 
ence should have loomed up again upon their in- 
tercourse. 

“You don’t know what it means to me,” An- 
nie moaned. 

“What can it mean but that he will under- 
stand that you are like other girls after all?” 

“But I’m not.” 

“Why?” He looked at her with defiance of 
her statement in his eyes. 

“Oh, you look so brave!” said Annie. 

“I can face the Pope and the whole Catholic 
Church, if that’s brave,” he answered steadily; 
and, if necessary, he meant to do it. 

“I wish you didn’t dislike the Catholic Church 
so,” Annie said impulsively. 

George made no answer. Her words set him 
thinking, for there was real love and reverence 
223 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

in her voice. Perhaps, he didn’t understand the 
church; perhaps he had not a broad enough 
basis upon which to like or dislike. What did 
he know of its tenets or its practises ? Suddenly 
his own words to Annie came back to him — 
‘‘A good life is the best argument for religion — ” 
and here she was at his side, so pure, so sweet, 
the obedient child of the old Roman faith. He 
felt his self-confidence shaken; perhaps, there 
was something in it after all. Yet, as he looked 
at Annie, meekly submissive, about to offer her 
whole existence as a tribute upon the altar of 
her religion, the heart within him that loved 
her rose in revolt against the sacrifice. It was 
not the blood of his protesting fathers defying 
the holy church, nothing half so abstract, but 
rather his love springing to the rescue of the 
woman by whom it had been inspired. 

He had not meant to speak to Annie seriously 
that afternoon. Indeed, it was to have been a 
careless hour, free from all responsibilities or 
consequences. Father Bernard, though, standing 
suddenly in its sunlight, had seemed to cast a 
dark shadow between them, which the young 
man felt must be admitted or forever removed. 
She was right, she was different from other girls, 
and, unless he could do away with that difference, 
every moment with her did harm to them both. 

224 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

They could not play along the border of the seri- 
ous as other young people all around them were 
doing; they must either launch out or go away 
from the shore. He looked down at Annie and 
knew that he had no intention of giving her up. 

She, poor child, was troubled and uncertain 
enough. She ought not to have come; just one 
glimpse of Father Bernard had convinced her of 
that, and yet her youth raised an appealing cry. 
Why not ? Where lay the harm ? Certainly 
not in the music, nor in the light and air and 
movement. Why there was Father Bernard 
himself, for that matter. But subterfuge would 
not answer; she knew why she ought not to have 
come. The reason was in her own heart, or 
rather it seemed to be surging through every 
part of her being. There was nothing of the 
mystic in Annie; she had simply not understood 
what the world could offer when she had decided 
to enter the church. She still clung to that de- 
cision, fearing to let go, yet this new conscious- 
ness was shaking her strangely — and she was 
not made for conflict and storm. 

They walked on in silence down the beautiful 
steps that lead to the fountain, and turned into 
the sheltered path by the lake. Once or twice 
George started to speak, but there was only one 
thing that he wanted to say, so he waited until 
225 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

he could find a bench where they might talk in 
some seclusion. 

‘‘Let’s sit here,” he said at last. 

She surveyed the place distrustfully. “I think 
we should be going home.” 

“The sun hasn’t set yet,” he answered. 

Annie hesitated, but the sun seemed to give 
a sort of guarantee of safety. Perhaps, since she 
was there, she might as well stay awhile; she 
would never come again. 

“There’s something I want to tell you,” George 
urged. 

Who could withstand that ? Annie knew that 
she ought not to hear it, but she sat down. The 
ripples of the lake broke at their feet, and a clump 
of lilac bushes hid them from the passers-by. 

“Are you too cool?” he asked anxiously. 

She shook her head. 

“Are you still worrying about that priest?” 

“He has always been so kind to me, I hate 
to have him think that I — ” she stopped, and he 
leaned forward and took her hand very gently. 

“He might as well know right away that I 
am not going to let you go into a convent.” 

Annie turned her face away, but he could see 
that she was trying hard to control her breathing, 
and the color was deepening in her cheek. She 
did not speak, but her hand lay still in his. 

226 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

At last he said: ‘‘Do you want to go in 

She shook her head again, ever so slightly. 

“Why not?’’ 

“Why don’t you want me to?” she asked in 
reply. 

“Because I love you,” said George, and there 
was a steady quality in his voice that told of real 
manliness, untried, perhaps, yet none the less con- 
vincing. 

She turned to him slowly, as though still re- 
sisting the power that made her do so at all. 
Slowly, too, her gaze was drawn to his, and 
then — then resistance was impossible. The con- 
vent might be for others, but not for Annie. 

“I don’t know how I shall tell Father Bernard 
and the sisters,” she said as they strolled home- 
ward at last, along pathways where the thicken- 
ing shadows were already illumined by occasional 
gas-lights. 

“I’ll handle Father Bernard; I’ll ask him to 
marry us. That will settle the matter, I guess,” 
George said. 

Annie marvelled at his intrepidity. “But we 
are not going to be married for a long time,” she 
objected. 

“I’m afraid we will have to wait awhile,” he 
admitted, thinking of his weekly salary as he 
spoke. 


227 


Father Bernard’s Parish 


The present had a charm of its own, however, 
and they left the future to settle its own difficul- 
ties, while they spent the sweetest hour that had 
ever been vouchsafed to either of them, and 
neared Columbus Avenue at a pace so slow that 
the long twilight had passed into night when 
finally they arrived. 


228 


CHAPTER XIII 


T here was no one at home when Annie got 
back; Tim, if he had been there, had gone 
out again, and Mrs. Halligan had not yet re- 
turned. She was often kept late on Saturday 
night. Annie was thankful to be spared the 
necessity of immediate explanation, and she set 
about getting a cup of tea ready in time for her 
mother’s arrival. Her courage ebbed rapidly, 
and if poor Mrs. Halligan had not been so tired 
after her day’s work she would have noticed 
the girl’s white face and nervous manner. As 
it was, she drank her cup of tea with scarcely 
a word and called for another. She had no energy 
left for cheerfulness just then, and grew quite 
melancholy as she thought of Annie’s helpful 
ways and proposed departure for the convent. 

“This time next year there’ll be no one to get 
me a cup o’ tea, so much as,” she said sadly. 
Annie made no reply. 

“A lady says to me yesterday, she says: ‘And 
how can ye be sparin’ yer only daughter to go 
into a convent ” 

The girl stood looking down at the teapot. 
Not long ago she would have answered very 
229 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

promptly: ‘‘Fll not go in if you need me, mother,’’ 
but, though she was no logician, she felt that it 
would be deceitful to say that now. 

Mrs. Halligan was waiting for the speech. 
Not hearing it, she looked up curiously. 

Annie looked up, too, and realized that the 
moment for confession had arrived. “I’m not go- 
ing into the convent, mother,” she said very low. 

“Not goin’ into the convent!” Mrs. Hal- 
ligan rose in her chair, and, in the brief silence 
that followed, her mind travelled quickly to a 
conclusion not far from the truth. “I always 
knowed I ought not to have took young men 
lodgers!” she exclaimed bitterly. 

“It isn’t either one of the lodgers,” said Annie 
very faintly. 

“Not Oscar Hauser? Then, in the name of 
the holy saints, who is it ?” 

“It’s George Wagner,” Annie said, but as the 
name seemed to convey no intelligence to her 
mother, she added after a moment’s hesitation: 
“He’s the clerk in the drug-store.” 

The information was not without its effect 
upon Mrs. Halligan, though she gave no evi- 
dence of it. “So this is the way ye’re payin’ 
back for the education I’ve give ye!” she cried. 

Annie was silent at first, then she ventured to 
say: “George has a lovely education.” 

230 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

‘‘Well, it’s not for no George nor Henry neither 
that I was workin’ all me life to educate me 
child.” 

Annie tried to speak but couldn’t, and her 
mother continued her remarks: 

“I suppose it’s come from me bein’ so proud 
of ye and so boastful, thinkin’ ye was called to 
somethin’ higher than most girls of yer station.” 

“I didn’t know you’d take it so hard, mother.” 

“I suppose not, for ye’ve not had yer hopes 
and plans for an infant in yer arms.” 

Again that big lump rose in Annie’s throat. 

“But I’d not be speakin’ of the disappointment 
if me daughter had not been deceivin’ me.” 

At this Annie could hold back the tears no 
longer. She put her head down on the table and 
wept aloud. 

Mrs. Halligan turned away and tried not to 
listen to the sobs, and for a time there was no 
other sound in the room. Then the girl felt a 
loving hand upon her shoulder, and one hard- 
wrung tear splashed upon the back of her white 
neck. She lifted her face and hid it against her 
mother’s skirt. 

“I wasn’t deceiving you. I didn’t know it for 
certain until this afternoon.” 

“It’s me that’s been deceivin’ meself!” Mrs. 
Halligan exclaimed, smoothing the soft brown 
231 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

hair. ‘‘Because Fd be proud to have ye go into 
the convent it's no reason why ye should want 
to go." 

“But I always did want to until I began to 
know George, and since then it's been awful." 

“Poor child, ye're not to blame. It's nature 
warrin' against the church. What's the young 
man makin' a week ?" 

“I don't know, but we'll have to wait before 
he can afford to get married." 

“I've no doubt, for a drug clerk, as a rule, 
has got very high-class ideas of livin'." 

“He's such a gentleman, mother. I'm sure 
you are going to like him." 

Mrs. Halligan made no promise about liking 
him, as yet, but the young man's station was at 
least satisfactory. “Does he go about the neigh- 
borhood ? " she asked. 

“Oh, no. I don't think he knows any one ex- 
cept Lena." 

“She's been after him. I'll be bound; but she 
didn't get him, nevertheless," the older woman 
remarked, treasuring up the idea to present 
later when she should be confronting Mrs. 
Zukerman's criticism of Annie. “If ye've got 
to marry, it's a comfort to know ye are takin' 
an upward step after all the music and embroid- 
eries ye've been learnin'. It would have been 
232 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

a sore trial to have had ye make it over to a 
delicatessen clerk or even to a butcher in his 
own right/’ 

Annie smiled a little. “I didn’t know you 
were ambitious, mother.” 

‘'Sure, it’s a country for risin’ up and progressin’ 
onward,” said her mother with a sigh. “Now 
Tim, poor boy, he can’t hope to do nothin’ grand 
in the way of marryin’, for he has not the educa- 
tion that I given ye, Annie.” 

“If it wasn’t for George, I’d wish Tim had it, 
for I can’t bear to think of how I’m disappoint- 
ing you, mother.” Annie began to weep again. 

“If it wasn’t for George ye’d be goin’ into the 
church, and needin’ ev’ry word of yer education,” 
her mother reminded her. “But I’m glad that 
it’s not to be thrown away on a husband that 
can’t reckon up what it cost me. As for Tim, 
if he was Father Bernard himself, he’d be after 
Lena Schramin, and much good his education 
would be doin’ him then.” 

“Lena is going with an Italian now,” Annie 
informed her mother. 

“I’m glad of it. May he carry her olF with 
him to Mulberry Bend,” said Mrs. Halligan with 
emphasis. 

Lena, however, was not on her way to Mul- 
berry Bend. She and Francisco were at that 

233 


Father Bernard’s Parish 


moment attending a moving-picture show over 
on Broadway. Tim was there, too, his aspect 
lowering and his gaze not directed to the pic- 
tures. He stood in the back of the little theatre 
and watched Lena and the Italian who sat half- 
way down to the front. To use his own expres- 
sion, he had “come out to make trouble,’’ and, 
though he had no clearly defined plan in his mind, 
he still meant to make it. When the reel had 
been run through he headed the movement to the 
door, and from the curbing saw Francisco en- 
gineering Lena to the street. Then, with an in- 
tention not observed in the shifting of people 
about the door of the theatre, he put himself 
squarely in front of his rival. In a moment 
Francisco had run into him and offered a laugh- 
ing apology. Tim turned upon him at once. 
“Can’t you keep out of people’s way?” he de- 
manded. 

Then it was that the Italian recognized him. 
“So ! I am een your way, eh ?” 

“You better believe nobody don’t stay in it 
long,” said Tim. 

“Move aside,” said Lena. 

Tim turned his glance upon her for the first 
time. “Are you speakin’ to him or to me?” 

“You know who I’m speakin’ to.” 

“It’s too bad you’re walkin’ with such a sissy 

234 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

that you have to clear the street for yourself!” 
Tim exclaimed. 

Francisco didn’t know what ‘‘sissy” meant 
in Italian, but he gathered that he had been re- 
ferred to with disrespect, so he said at once: 
“You keep shut weeth your mouth or I maka 
you.” 

“You will, eh?” Tim laughed in a tone that 
boded ill for Francisco’s life and limb, and shot 
out with his big fists in furious joy. 

The crowd caught the excitement. “Fight! 
Fight!” The cry was heard in the little theatre 
and men inside pushed out as fast as they could. 
“Fight! Fight!” 

“Call the cop !” 

Lena kept on the inside of the ring around the 
combatants. Her heart was in her throat at 
every blow, yet she couldn’t help being proud of 
the man she loved. Francisco held his own 
fairly well at first, but he had not Tim’s wind, nor 
Tim’s reach, nor Tim’s splendid heavy muscles, 
and it was not long before he went down before 
a well-directed blow that put an end to the fight. 

“Call an ambulance!” 

“You can’t do anything till the cop comes!” 

“Hold him! Don’t let him get away!” 

A half dozen men laid uncertain hands upon 
Tim. 


23s 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

‘‘You’d better run,” said Lena to him as she 
stooped above Francisco. 

“Leave him alone,” Tim commanded. 

“Keep quiet and run for it,” she answered, 
continuing her attentions to the Italian. 

Tim didn’t run. He stood there glowering at 
Lena and at the still prostrate Francisco. The 
men who were holding him grew bolder and 
tightened their grip. Then, just as he roused 
himself to shake them ofF, there was a stir in the 
great crowd that had collected. 

“Here’s the cop !” 

“Here’s the officer!” 

The majesty of the law had appeared in person 
and Tim was under arrest. Lena got up and 
stood by him. “He’s just sort of stunned,” she 
said, motioning toward Francisco. 

“I don’t care what he is,” Tim answered, and 
the officer made a note of his remark. 

She caught her lover’s hand; her own was cold 
and damp. “Why didn’t you run?” she asked. 

He made no answer but held the cold fingers 
tight in his clasp. 

“Here, stand aside,” the officer commanded. 

“Lena, you’ll tell my mother,” said Tim. 

She nodded. 

Then he was carried off to the nearest station- 
house, and Francisco was shoved into the 
236 


am- 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

bulance that arrived soon after, while Lena, 
better able to take care of herself than either of 
them, went homeward in considerable perturba- 
tion. 

She stopped in front of Mrs. Halligan’s flat, 
uncertain how to carry out her promise. Tim’s 
mother ought to be told, yet Lena had no fancy 
for the task that had been thrust upon her. 
Finally she mounted the narrow flights of stairs 
that led to the home of the Halligans and knocked 
at a door to the left. 

Movement within responded at once, but it 
was some little time before the summons was 
answered. Lena, standing in the dimly lit pas- 
sage, had a sudden feeling of desolation as she 
waited to deliver the evil tidings that she bore 
— ^Tim was in the lockup. As for Francisco, she 
had never a thought of him. 

Annie came to the door and looked at the 
visitor in astonishment. Not since her child- 
hood had Lena been to the Halligans’ apartment 
and the lateness of the hour made her coming 
now a very startling circumstance. Lena did 
not know just how to tell her news at first, and, 
in the brief interval of silence, Mrs. Halligan 
called from the kitchen: 

‘‘Who’s there ? Why don’t ye say something, 
Annie, child ?” 


237 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

‘‘Don’t let her come out here,” said Lena 
quickly. 

“Sit quiet, I’ll tell you in a minute,” Annie 
called. 

“It’s about Tim,” Lena announced. “He’s just 
been arrested for hittin’ Francisco over on Broad- 
way.” 

“Who’s been arrested?” was demanded from 
the kitchen. 

Lena had not time to escape before Mrs. Hal- 
ligan looked out at her over Annie’s shoulder. 

“Oh it’s yerself, Lena Schramin, bringin’ me 
ill news of the boy ye helped to ruin!” cried the 
older woman. 

“Hush, mother,” said Annie. 

“Leave her alone. I didn’t expect much thanks 
for climbin’ up here to tell her,” Lena declared. 

“Thanks was not what ye come for,” Mrs. 
Halligan retorted, excitement overcoming her 
limited power of restraint. “Ye come up here 
to tell me about me boy because ye knowed I 
didn’t want ye to have him.” 

“If I had cared about that I would have 
married him six times over,” said Lena. 

“Well, and I’m glad he’s in the lockup, so ye 
can’t get him!” Mrs. Halligan exclaimed de- 
fiantly. “And if he’s there, it’s nothin’ but yer- 
self that’s brought him to it.” 

238 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

“Oh, do be quiet, mother,” Annie entreated. 

“Ye’d better be tellin’ her to be quiet. It’s 
nothin’ but a pack of lies she’s tellin’ us. Tim is 
never seen the inside of a lockup.” 

“Lies, are they?” said Lena. She turned and 
went down the stairs at that. Mrs. Halligan 
pushed Annie aside and went to the railing. 
“And, if Tim is arrested, why don’t ye say what’s 
the cause of it ?” she demanded. 

“You’d better ask somebody else,” said Lena, 
and continued her course. 

“I’ll find out quick enough if it’s the truth,” 
Mrs. Halligan called. “But it’s me own belief 
ye come up here in the hopes of seein’ me poor 
Tim, and, if a young man was tryin’ to get away 
from me, which he never was. I’d not be goin’ 
to his mother and trackin’ him down in his own 
house.” 

This called forth no response; Lena was noisily 
descending the second flight and Mrs. Halligan 
could not be sure that her remarks had been 
heard. Annie pulled her mother in and shut the 
door. 

Down-stairs at the street entrance Lena en- 
countered a man coming in and, even at first 
glance in the half light, she recognized Donnelly. 
He peered at her with curiosity and was over- 
joyed when he discovered who she was. 

239 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

‘‘Well, now, didn’t I come along in the nick of 
time he exclaimed, effectually blocking her way. 

“See here, I haven’t got time for foolin’,” said 
Lena impatiently. 

“You know I’m not fooling. I mean busi- 
ness, and don’t you forget it.” 

“It’s too late to talk about it now,” she re- 
plied, and made an unsuccessful effort to pass 
him. 

“Thought you would slip by me, eh ? Well, 
Donnelly’s got the game and you might as well 
give up.” 

Lena looked at him in disdainful silence, then 
she sat down on the stair. “Say what you want 
to say and get through with it.” 

He had no wish to hurry the interview, but 
even at that moment he felt the force of her 
dominating personality. “You needn’t make 
out that you don’t know what I’m after,” he 
said. “And, come to think about it, being Mrs. 
Reuben Donnelly won’t be such a bad job for 
the right party.” 

“I’m not lookin’ for a job,” Lena remarked 
briefly. 

“Say, now, you are stiff. That’s one reason 
why I picked you out.” 

“Well, pick again,” she said, not able to endure 
calmly the patronage of his tone. 

240 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

‘‘Making believe to put me off, eh?’^ he ex- 
claimed, leaning over her with an assumption of 
proprietorship. 

“Move away!’’ she cried imperiously. But 
now he only laughed, inflamed by her nearness, 
and in a moment he had caught her up and 
kissed her. 

Lena’s rage was unbounded. 

“You can squirm all you want to, but I’ve 
got you, and I’m going to marry you, too.” 

“Not on your life!” she cried. 

“I guess your father will have something to 
say about it,” he replied easily. 

“You want to know what I told my father? 
I told him, if I married you. I’d kill you!” The 
words were spoken in his ear, and she managed 
to put all the fierceness of her nature into her 
voice. 

Donnelly was startled and loosened his hold 
upon her in involuntary alarm for his safety. 
Seizing the moment, she freed herself from his 
embrace, and ran past him into the street. 

“That’s all right ! You can’t scare me off that 
way,” he called after her. 

Lena laughed, but the noise of the elevated 
train drowned the mocking sound of her voice. 


241 


CHAPTER XIV 


anxious night left Mrs. Halligan in no 



-ZjL doubt as to the truth of Lena’s story and, 
on her way to say a prayer for her boy at early 
mass next morning, she stopped at a news-stand 
and found at once a brief account of the fracas 
that had landed Tim in the station-house. She 
followed him there later, but was delayed in 
gaining entrance, and, coming home disheartened 
shortly after noon, she despatched Annie to ad- 
vise Father Bernard of their misfortune. 

Annie didn’t want to go to see the father. It 
made her nervous even to think of what he 
might say to her after the glimpse she had had 
of him in the park, but her mother swept aside 
all excuses. 

“Of course, if ye’ve no love in yer heart for 
yer poor brother. I’ll go meself, though I’ve 
pledged me sacred honor to the boardin’-house 
lady not to forsake her in cookin’ the dinner, 
and I’m that tired now with standin’ on me feet 
before the lockup that I’ve little idea how I 
shall keep from failin’ upon the stove.” 

At this Annie signified submission, for she was 


242 


Father Bernard’s Parish 


not of the material that could withstand such 
remarks. She accordingly set out for the priests’ 
house with the dutiful intention of thinking of 
Tim’s necessity rather than of her own trepida- 
tion. 

Father Bernard was more than glad to see 
her, for he was convinced at once that she had 
come of her own will to tell him of the change 
in her plans. It was a disappointment to him, 
therefore, when she said, with considerable em- 
barrassment of manner: ‘‘My mother sent me to 
tell you about Tim, sir.” 

“Tim ! What about Tim ?” 

“She thought maybe you would have read it 
in the papers.” 

The father, however, had read nothing about 
Tim, and Annie explained, as well as she could, 
the cause of his arrest. 

“I’ll go over to the station-house and see him, 
if it’s possible,” he declared at once. 

“It will be a great relief to my mother,” said 
Annie. “She has been trying to get in to him 
all the morning, but they kept her waiting.” 

“Tell her I’ll see him and bring her word,” he 
promised again. 

Then Annie thanked him, but, instead of 
going, she stood still, looking very miserable in- 
deed. 


243 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

“Were you at mass the priest asked. 

“Yes, father.” 

Again silence fell. Then she said rather pre- 
cipitately: “I guess you saw me yesterday in 
the park, father.” 

“Yes, Annie.” 

“It’s the first time, sir. But — but he doesn’t 
want me to go into the convent.” 

“I saw that, Annie.” 

“And I don’t want to go myself — now.” 

“Yes. I saw that, too.” 

The priest was habitually so kind that Annie 
couldn’t tell whether he was greatly displeased 
with her or not. “I hope you don’t think I am 
making light of my intention toward the church, 
sir.” 

“No, Annie, I don’t think that.” 

He stood so still and his manner was so grave 
and so remote in its gentleness that Annie grew 
more nervous as she went on. Father Bernard 
scarcely heeded her, for she had caused him to 
return to a certain abstract argument that he 
had never yet settled to his satisfaction. What 
is weakness, and what is strength ? Is it weak 
to face disapproval and criticism, to defy exist- 
ing conditions and cleave to sincerity and truth ? 
Is it strong to hold to a course that is no longer 
either desired or desirable, to keep an outward 
244 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

semblance of a spirit that no longer exists ? It 
was only an abstraction. There was no personal 
application to his own life, for Father Bernard had 
found his calling, and he knew it. The point was 
a nice one, though; it had always attracted him. 

‘‘He is coming to ask you to marry us, sir, 
when he’s able,” said Annie. 

“He’s not a Catholic, my child.” 

“Must that keep us apart, father?” she asked 
timidly after a pause. 

He turned away from the distress in her face. 
“Suppose I said yes, would that end it?” 

She hesitated. “I don’t know, your Rever- 
ence.” 

“You mean you’ll not give him up if the church 
commands it ?” 

“Not in my heart, sir.” 

“You are a good girl, Annie,” said the priest. 

“Must I give him up ?” she asked. 

“No, my child. I’ll speak to the young man 
about it.” 

“I’m afraid he’ll never turn Catholic,” she 
said warningly. 

“I shall not ask it of him,” Father Bernard 
assured her. 

“You are not very angry with me, father, are 
you?” she asked at the door. 

“No, Annie. I’m glad you are going to be 
245 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

happy, and I believe that you will always love 
the church.” 

'‘I will, sir,” said Annie ardently. ‘‘And I 
thank you for all your kindness to me and for 
the instruction that you have given me. I hope 
you will not find that they have been thrown 
away.” 

“I have no fear of that,” he answered, looking 
with sympathy into the face that shone so happily 
in spite of difficulties, and even of a few very real 
regrets. 

“You’ll remember about Tim,” she called from 
the bottom of the step, for her brother’s misfor- 
tune had slipped from her own mind temporarily. 

“I shall remember,” said the priest, and he 
stood and watched her as she went down the 
street. Then he put the little romance out of his 
head, and went at once to see Tim as he had 
promised. 

Mrs. Halligan, left to herself after Annie’s 
departure, had just begun to say her beads in 
earnest supplication for Tim’s speedy deliver- 
ance, when a knock sounded in the entry. She 
rose stiffly from her knees with a malediction 
upon the intruder, and opened the door to a 
young man, strange to her, but of prepossessing 
appearance. 

“I’m looking for Mrs. Halligan,” he said, 

246 


Father Bernard’s Parish 


‘‘It’s meself,” she assured him and invited him 
into the kitchen. 

“I am George Wagner, Mrs. Halligan,” he 
said. 

“Well, bad luck to ye, George Wagner,” she 
replied with asperity. 

“Don’t say that,” he begged. “I can’t help 
feeling the way I do about Annie.” 

“Ye should have kept it to yerself for more 
reasons than one. In the first place, Annie was 
promised to the church, and ye’re takin’ a deal 
upon yer shoulders to keep her out of such a life 
of contentment.” 

“She wouldn’t be contented in it now,” he as- 
serted. 

“And who’s to blame?” 

“Do you think that’s the happiest life?” he 
asked. 

Mrs. Halligan looked at him contemptuously. 
“Ye’re no better than the rest of them. Ye’re 
all for bein’ so happy. But ye’ll not be it in this 
world — or not for long.” 

“Is that the only objection you have to our 
marrying?” George asked. 

“No, I’ve another, and it is that ye’ll be shamin’ 
her one of these days that her mother was a cook.” 

“We won’t talk about anything so foolish as 
that,” he said. 


247 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

‘‘That’s just what we will talk about. I’m 
not insensible that Annie would be takin’ a step 
up in the world by marryin’ ye.” 

“Nonsense.” 

“No, and it’s not nonsense. In me own 
country there’s a fair account took of such 
things, and each profession and trade has got 
a valuation of its own. But, let me tell you, 
young man, in the matter of disposition and 
education Annie would be an elegant match 
for the lord leftenant himself, and if ye’re 
thinkin’ of lookin’ down upon her and upon her 
relations ye’ll never get her as long as me 
breath holds out to forbid her marryin’ herself 
to ye.” 

“I don’t think you know how much I care 
about Annie,” said George. “I couldn’t look 
down, as you call it, upon her, or her rela- 
tives either, for I know she’s far too good for 
me.” 

“I’ve no doubt but what ye think ye’re speakin’ 
the truth, but I’ll have ye to remember me re- 
marks, nevertheless.” 

“I shall try to make her a good husband,” 
George replied earnestly. “I wouldn’t have dis- 
turbed you this morning so early, but that I 
thought I might be of some help to you about 
Tim.” 


248 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

‘‘Oh, me poor boy,” Mrs. Halligan moaned. 

“I’ve just heard about it. Annie should have 
come to me at once.” 

“Annie is gone up to see Father Bernard about 
lookin’ after him.” 

“But Father Bernard isn’t a lawyer.” 

“No more is yerself. Lawyers is beyond the 
reach of the poor.” 

George hesitated a moment. “I came to tell 
you that I have a little sum in the bank that’s 
at your disposal,” he said with diffidence. He 
was not accustomed to the role of benefactor, 
and played it without the impressive manner. 
Perhaps the proposal was all the more appre- 
ciated, however. Mrs. Halligan’s severity melted 
at once. 

“Ye’ve got a feelin’ heart, George Wagner, 
but I’ll not take yer money. And if I should be 
compelled to do so, I and me children will pay 
it back to ye.” 

“That’s all right. I want you to feel free to use 
it if you need it,” said George. 

Mrs. Halligan was affected by his generosity. 
“Ye must forgive me for suggestin’ that ye might 
be lookin’ down on Annie’s relations. Ye’ve 
done a noble deed, and I’m as thankful for that 
as for the money,” she told him. 

George blushed, but was spared the necessity 
249 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

of reply, for a latch-key sounded in the door and 
Annie entered. She looked with surprise and 
uncertainty at the two occupants of the room. 
Did peace or enmity exist between them 

George went to her and took her hand. ‘‘Your 
mother and I have been getting acquainted,’^ 
he said. 

Annie’s eyes reflected his smile and they stood 
together in silence for a moment. Then Mrs. 
Halligan spoke: 

“I don’t mind sayin’ that I think ye’re doin’ 
well, Annie,” she said. 

The smile that had started in Annie’s eyes 
broke upon her lips. 

“Thank you, Mrs. Halligan,” said George. 
“It’s the Lord that made ye ye should be 
thankin’,” Mrs. Halligan replied. “What did the 
father say, Annie?” she asked. 

“It’s all right. He’ll see Tim and bring you 
word to-night,” Annie told her. 

Tim’s mother was not the only one who watched 
for the priest’s coming that evening; Harry 
Veinig ran down the street to meet him; George 
Wagner stopped him as he passed the drug-store; 
Oscar Hauser intercepted him at the door of Mrs. 
Halligan’s flat. But Lena, watching and waiting, 
too, was overcome by a strange self-consciousness. 
She could not bring herself to waylay the father 
250 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

and get news at first-hand, as did the others, 
but decided rather to extract the tidings from 
Annie later. 

Annie, however, did not come out that eve- 
ning, and as Lena would not again venture into 
Mrs. Halligan’s domains, she was forced to wait 
as best she could until the morning, when Zuker- 
man’s would be open again and Annie would be 
sure to run in for bread. 

It was hard for Lena to pass the time that 
Sunday evening. There was nothing going on 
in the street, and Donnelly seemed to pervade 
the whole neighborhood. The only escape from 
him was in her own sleeping-room, which was 
not an exhilarating place, looking upon an air- 
shaft, and being at best but a passageway to 
the kitchen. 

Mrs. Schramin was mildly surprised at seeing 
her stepdaughter at home. 

‘‘Ain’t you got nobody to take you out, Lena ?” 
she asked. 

“I got more than I want,” said Lena. “Look 
out the front window, and see if Donnelly’s still 
on the pavement.” 

“Your father’s in the front room,” Mrs. Schra- 
min objected. She never provoked her lord to 
question if she could avoid doing so. 

“I’ll go myself, then,” said Lena, but as she 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

Started there came a voice from the front room 
— Donnelly’s voice. He had evidently wearied 
of waiting for her on the pavement, but he was 
in very good spirits as a result of the removal of 
his two rivals from the scene. 

‘‘Is Lena at home, Mr. Schramin.?” he asked 
in a tone whose assurance of conquest pene- 
trated to the dark passage where Lena stood 
listening. 

“Lena!” old Schramin called. 

Lena stood for a moment baffled. The way 
of exit was cut off; she couldn’t reach the stair- 
way from the rear. 

“Lena!” 

She turned and ran through to the kitchen. 

“What you doin’?” Mrs. Schramin whispered, 
following anxiously in her wake. In an instant 
Lena had stepped through the window to the 
fire-escape and was climbing down the ladder. 

“You’ll have to drop from the second story,” 
Mrs. Schramin said, leaning out. 

“Don’t you worry; I’ll be all right. There’s a 
window open; I’ll get through to the front,” 
Lena replied. 

“What’ll I say?” Mrs. Schramin asked in a 
frightened voice. 

No answer came up from below; Lena was 
stepping into a flat two stories down. Once 
252 


on 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

the street, she ran as fast as she could — west- 
ward to the river. 

How often had she strolled along the Drive 
with Tim. She leaned on the wall and looked 
down at the park and the broad river. Far 
across a fairy city sparkled in electric splendor 
above the Fort Lee ferry. She had been there 
with Francisco just two nights before, but her 
thoughts were not of the young Italian as she 
gazed moodily at the blazing lights. The poplar- 
trees growing below, and reaching high above 
the wall, were swaying in the wind; she could 
hear the band from a Coney Island boat, and a 
man-of-war anchored in midstream made it 
eight bells in the middle watch. A couple of 
sailors passed, and then repassed, talking at 
Lena and laughing immoderately at their own 
remarks. She paid no attention to them, for 
they did not interest her — she wanted Tim. 
There was no telling what would happen to the 
poor boy with the law gripping him. She felt 
uneasy and she saw very clearly, but it was her 
heart and not ‘‘the river’s dim expanse” at 
which she was looking across the wall. 

She would testify, of course. The officer had 
told her that she must do that, and she meant 
to lie, but, as there were other witnesses, she could 
not do much good. Her thoughts were poor 

253 


Father Bernard’s Parish 


company, so she started to walk again, hoping 
that the wind and the motion would drive them 
away. She went all the way up to Grant’s tomb 
and stood there on the heights like ‘‘a love- 
lighted watch-fire” that it would have warmed 
Tim’s heart to see. When she turned homeward 
at last her nervous tension had been considerably 
relieved by the exercise and air. 

Her father was waiting for her, as she knew 
that he would be. Donnelly had gone. 

‘‘Where was you?” Schramin demanded. 

“To Riverside.” 

“Who took you there?” 

“I went with myself,” said Lena. 

“You’ll go with Donnelly to-morrow night, 
and you’ll hold your tongue about killin’ him 
and all that nonsense.” 

She laughed. “Is he been complainin’?” 

Schramin made no answer. He did not ad- 
mire Donnelly himself, but then he was not 
given to admiration. 

“You needn’t think you can get out of it. 
I tell you I won’t last through if he keeps on 
takin’ the customers away.” This was an un- 
usual outburst for the old butcher, and there 
was almost a pitiful look about him, for the 
responsibilities of life have a way of corroding 
the strongest metal. Lena’s eyes rested upon 

254 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

him in surprise, and for the first time between 
the father and daughter there flashed a spark of 
sympathy, caused, perhaps, by some filial af- 
fection, innate and unsuspected, and by some 
sudden stirring of parental pride. 

“I ain’t goin’ to do it,” she said stubbornly; 
nevertheless, yet more to- herself than to him. 

Schramin’s expression hardened at the words, 
and she turned quickly and went out of the room. 

Lena didn’t sleep much that night, for she was 
thinking of Tim, and it seemed to her that the 
morning would never come when she would hear 
what word the priest had brought from him. 

Annie usually came into Zukerman’s at eight 
o’clock, but at nine she had not yet arrived, and 
Lena’s temper had quite broken down under 
the strain of suspense. By half past nine she 
was giving every one biscuit who asked for buns, 
and buns, who asked for biscuits. 

“Why don’t you think of what you’re puttin’ 
into the bag, already ?” Mrs. Zukerman demanded. 

Lena made no answer, and, taking a tray of rolls 
from the dumb-waiter at the moment, set it down 
squarely on top of a fine baking of layer cakes. 

“Do what you’re lookin’!” cried Mrs. Zuker- 
man in great excitement, and snatched up the 
tray with such violence that half the rolls fell 
upon the floor. 


2S5 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

“I never did that/’ said Lena defiantly. 

Mrs. Zukerman was uttering explosive gut- 
turals as she lowered herself after the rolls, and 
at that moment Annie came in. Lena looked up 
quickly, and, leaving her employer to hunt for 
the rolls and smooth out the damaged cake, she 
ran around the counter and dragged Annie out- 
side again. 

‘'What did the father say about Tim?” she 
demanded. 

‘T didn’t know you wanted to hear about 
Tim.” 

“Why didn’t you know it ?” 

“Well, if you had cared anything about him 
I suppose the quarrel would never have taken 
place,” Annie said rather coldly. 

Lena looked at her with an incredulous stare. 
“Poor little innocent,” she said, but did not con- 
descend to explain her meaning. “It’s no use 
tryin’ to tell you why I did certain things, but, 
you can take it from me sure, there ain’t but one 
feller in the world for me, and that’s Tim. It 
don’t make any difference how many Eyetalians 
he knocks in the head. Say, Annie, you ought to 
have seen him givin’ that left hook to Francisco !” 
she exclaimed, fondly recalling Tim’s prowess. 

“I’m thankful I didn’t see him,” Annie de- 
clared. 

256 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

‘‘I wouldn’t have missed bein’ there for a 
week’s pay,” Lena said, and again demanded 
what news had been brought by the priest. 

Father Bernard, indeed, had had little to say. 
He had found Tim unrepentant, rejoicing in his 
victory, and openly declaring that he would 
fight over again if he had the chance. Knowl- 
edge of this state of mind would have been of 
great interest to Lena, but Annie could tell her 
nothing except that Tim was in good health, a 
fact about which she had had no uneasiness. 

didn’t think you really cared what became 
of him,” Annie said with a note of sympathy in 
her voice. 

‘‘Suppose your own feller was in the lockup?” 
Lena suggested. 

This was inconceivable; Tim might be in jail, 
but not George. The reference to him, however, 
gave Annie the opportunity of informing her 
friend of her engagement, yet she scarcely knew 
how to begin. 

“I want to tell you something about myself, 
Lena,” she said at last, though with constraint. 

Lena flashed her a glance of quick understand- 
ing. “You and the drug-store chap are goin’ to 
step off.” 

“How did you know?” Annie asked in sur- 
prise. 


257 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

‘'That’s a thing I don’t usually make a mis- 
take about,” said Lena. 

“Don’t you think he’s nice ?” Annie questioned 
timidly. 

“I guess he’s all right if you like that kind,” 
Lena replied. She was not in the humor for 
felicitating any other girl on the subject of her 
love-affair. 

“I don’t know what you mean by ‘that kind’ !” 
Annie exclaimed. ‘‘George is a perfect gentle- 
man.” 

“Yes, that’s what he looks like,” Lena agreed 
contemptuously. 

Annie’s eyes gave forth an unexpected flash 
and the other, seeing her annoyance, made a 
half-way apology. “Don’t work yourself up, 
now. Remember if it hadn’t been for what I 
said to you you would never have had the grit 
to keep yourself out of the convent.” 

“I don’t know about that,” said Annie with 
some spirit. 

“Don’t you ? Wasn’t it me told you how you’d 
feel if you didn’t take him when you could 

“Yes, it was, and I thought about it all that 
night.” 

“Did it take you all that time to decide?” 

“Oh, I didn’t decide then. I couldn’t until — 
until he ” 


258 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

“You are a funny kid ! I don’t remember 
when I hadn’t decided to marry Tim,” said 
Lena. 

‘"You meant to marry him all the time?” 

“Yes, of course.” 

“Then, why did you^ ” 

“Oh, I say, don’t let’s talk about what you 
can’t understand,” said Lena. Turning, she 
spied Harry Veinig crossing the street in evi- 
dent concern. 

“I been up to the hospital,” he announced. 

“What did you do that for? Francisco wasn’t 
much hurt,” Lena declared. 

“He’s dyin’,” said Harry. 

The two girls looked at him in instant terror. 
Lena was the first to speak. “What are you 
givin’ us ? He can’t die so easy.” 

“Go and find out for yourself, then, but he’s 
dyin’ all right,” Harry retorted. 

“Suppose he does die?” said Annie, gripping 
Lena with a trembling hand. They both looked 
at Harry, a dreadful question in their eyes. 

“Father Bernard says it might be man- 
slaughter,” he told them. 

“Is that the same as — ” Annie’s lips could not 
frame the terrible word. 

“No, it’s somethin’ different. But it ain’t 
good for Tim to have him die,” said Harry. 

259 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

“What is the penalty for manslaughter?’" 
Annie asked. 

“They put ’em in prison,” Harry answered 
promptly and turned away. He could not bear 
to think of Tim in prison. 

“Francisco must have somethin’ else the mat- 
ter with him, because Tim’s lick couldn’t have 
killed him,” Lena asserted. 

“Dagos are mighty soft,” said Harry, scorn 
sitting oddly upon his misshapen frailty. 

“It will kill my mother!” cried Annie. 

The others said nothing; they were occupied 
with their own thoughts. 

“It was you drove Tim to do it,” said Harry 
at last, lifting his eyes to Lena’s face in an out- 
burst of the resentment that raged within him. 
Lena made no reply to this taunt, but turned 
quickly and went back into the lunch-room. 
Annie tried to stop her but the wire door banged 
with a sound of finality. 

“Leave her be,” said the boy. 

“Oh, but I’m so sorry for her. She loves Tim, 
Harry.” 

Harry laughed in a way he had gotten from his 
father, and which well expressed his doubts on 
the subject of affection so strangely evidenced. 

Lena went through the day with a heavy heart 
and a sullen manner. 


260 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

‘'You’re losin’ me money, lookin’ like a thunder- 
clap,” Mrs. Zukerman complained, but the girl 
paid no attention. Even at the lunch hour 
her expression did not change, and finally Mrs. 
Zukerman, sorely tried and in some alarm lest 
her customers should take olFense at Lena’s 
behavior, said: "You can sit in the back and 
dish the plates — I’ll wait on the men myself.” 

"That’ll keep ’em contented,” said Lena, who 
didn’t care whether they stayed or went. 

Mrs. Zukerman started off with Lena’s tray, 
and her remarks upon the situation and its 
bearings were delivered at intervals as she re- 
turned for fresh supplies. "And, if Tim is in 
jail, eatin’ is got to go on just the same, already. 
Two portions of apple pie and a cranberry tart.” 

Lena filled the order and made no reply. 

"The jail’s as good a place for him as any 
other,” said the proprietress on her return trip. 

She could not move Lena to discussion, how- 
ever, and the day wore wearily away, until the un- 
willing assistant was finally sent ofF a full half- 
hour before closing time, for the reason that Mrs. 
Zukerman’s fine German nerves were feeling the 
strain of such trying association. 

Lena, having been held in leash all day, bounded 
ofF to Father Bernard as soon as she was free. 
The priest was out, so she sat on the step await- 
261 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

ing his return. He almost stumbled over her as 
he came in in the darkness a while later. 

‘‘Tve got to see Tim,” she said at once. 

‘‘Is that Lena?” he asked, peering through the 
gloom. 

‘‘Who else would be wantin’ to see him like 
I do?” she demanded. 

“What do you want to see him for ?” the priest 
asked after a moment’s reflection. 

She hesitated. “Is Francisco dyin’?” 

“I fear so.” 

“Does Tim know?” 

“Yes. I’ve just been with him; he knows.” 

“Did he say anything about me ?” She waited 
breathless for the answer. 

“No,” said Father Bernard, and then silence 
fell. 

Tim had not spoken Lena’s name during the 
course of this latest visit, but the father had 
been left in no doubt as to his feeling for her. 
Still, the disciplining of the young woman was 
quite worthy of accomplishment, and he left his 
statement in unaltered severity for the time. 

Lena rebelled at discipline and, being in a 
desperate frame of mind, mapped out for herself 
a desperate course. She was temperamentally 
opposed to inaction. “Then I’ll marry Donnelly 
to-night,” she said. 


262 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

The priest was startled. ‘‘Marry Donnelly! 
Do you care for him, Lena ?” 

“I hate him! ” she said savagely. 

“Then, why do anything so foolish ?” 

“My father wants me to for the business, and 
if Tim don’t care — ” She did not finish her sen- 
tence. 

Father Bernard thought a moment. “I can’t 
say that Tim doesn’t care,” he said at length. 

Lena turned to him quickly. “What did he 
say, father ?” 

“He didn’t say anything very much, my child, 
but I know that he loves you.” 

“I done him mean!” she cried, and the priest 
did not contradict her. 

“Maybe you think I don’t deserve to see him.” 

“You don’t.” 

“But that wouldn’t make you keep me out, 
would it?” she asked in alarm. 

“Heaven forbid,” the father answered solemnly. 
He made her the promise for which she had come: 
he would take her to see Tim in the morning if 
it were possible to gain admission for her. 

Lena did not question the possibility, and yet 
she found the night of waiting a long one. Not 
so long, though, as did Tim in his cell, facing 
Francisco’s death, and unaware that the morn- 
ing would bring him anything to reward his 
263 


Father Bernard’s Parish 


waiting. Father Bernard was kind, but Tim 
had never been addicted to the society of priests; 
from Lena he hoped for nothing; a visit from his 
mother he feared would unnerve him; so that 
his anticipation finally centred about a call from 
Harry Veinig. Perhaps he would be permitted 
to come to see him; the priest, indeed, might be 
so kind as to bring it about. 

It seemed to Tim very late next morning when 
Father Bernard arrived, though, in reality, Lena 
had prodded the good father to an early start. 
Tim rose to greet his visitor, but the priest merely 
stood at the door. 

‘‘Here’s some one who wants to see you,” he 
said. 

Then Lena came in and they were left together. 
Tim could find nothing to say; neither could she, 
at first, and each was afraid of looking at the 
other. 

“I want to ask your pardon, Tim,” she man- 
aged to murmur at last. 

“For what ?” 

“For the way I done you.” 

“It’s sort of late,” said Tim dryly. 

“Harry Veinig says I drove you to do what 
you done.” 

“You can tell Harry to quit talkin’ about me. 
I’d like to tell you I’m sorry I killed the Eye- 
264 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

talian, if he’s dead, but I ain’t,” he volunteered 

“Why would you like to tell me ?” 

“Oh, I suppose you’re takin’ on over him.” 

Lena made no comment on this statement, and 
again they were silent. 

Finally she said: “What do you suppose I 
came here for, Tim ?” 

“I don’t know,” said Tim, fearing to cherish 
a deceitful hope. 

“To get married,” she answered softly. 

He took an involuntary step toward her, and 
for the first time she looked into his face. There 
was no need for words after that, for Tim swept 
her to him, and she yielded willingly to his em- 
brace. 

“I didn’t tell Father Bernard I was goin’ to 
marry you or he wouldn’t have brought me,” 
she told him. 

Tim shook his head. “I’m not goin’ to marry 
you — not in a jail,” he said. 

“What do I care for a jail?” cried Lena. 

“I care,” he answered briefly. 

“They’d let me come to see you ev’ry day if 
I was your wife, Tim,” she pleaded. 

Tim released her and put his hands over his 
face. “I don’t want to marry you — not in here,” 
he said after a moment. 

“But, Tim, I want you to so much.” 

265 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

“Don’t talk to me like that, I ain’t nothin’ 
but a man!” he cried passionately, and Lena 
loved him all the more for his refusal. 

The priest opened the door just then. “Come, 
Lena,” he said. 

“Not yet,” she begged and looked at Tim. 

Tim looked away and said very gently: “You’d 
better go with the father, Lena.” 

Then the door was shut and he could hear their 
footsteps as they passed down the cemented hall 
without, and left him with a new longing for 
liberty and a new dread of its denial. 


266 


CHAPTER XV 


i^HEM Germans will get to Paris!” Mrs. 
i Halligan announced with lugubrious cer- 
tainty. 

Father Bernard endeavored to reassure her — 
and himself. “The French are showing up 
splendidly, and you must remember, the Eng- 
lish are there, too.” 

“Faith, if all the English was Irish now, we 
might hope for somethin’. But what can the 
poor Irish boys do against the whole German 
army?” she said mournfully. The war was the 
only topic that could turn her thoughts from 
Tim, and she found little to enliven her in the 
news from the battle front. 

All New York was vibrant with excitement 
and suspense, and Father Bernard, who had 
stopped for a word with Mrs. Halligan in passing, 
found it difficult, in view of the stupendous 
events in Europe, to keep his mind fixed upon 
the needs of his parishioners. He had meant 
to talk about Tim, but the discussion of the war 
was too enticing, and he was launched upon it 
before he realized it. Mrs. Halligan, too, found 
267 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

the talk absorbing, but she swung round to her 
boy before very long. 

“If this Eyetalian was to die Fd wish Tim 
was in the old country fightin’ with the Dublin 
Fusiliers/’ she said. 

“They’re making a fine record,” Father Ber- 
nard answered, enthusiasm thrilling in his voice. 

Mrs. Halligan looked up at him with unex- 
pected insight. “Wouldn’t ye be a fine chaplain, 
father ? Only the English is too blinded to have 
ye, on account of the church. Bad luck to ’em !” 

“Don’t wish the English bad luck just now,” 
he cautioned. 

“It’s just a sayin’. Me heart is with England 
in this war,” Mrs. Halligan replied in some con- 
fusion. “Ah, but when I think of the praise the 
boys is gettin’ for killin’ each other in Europe, 
I can’t help feelin’ sour at the law that’s holdin’ 
me poor Tim in jail for just crackin’ the skull 
of an Eyetalian,” she said, returning to the sub- 
ject of greatest interest. 

“I have not been able to see Tim for several 
days,” said the priest. 

“He was askin’ about ye,” Mrs. Halligan re- 
plied. “And that’s one good thing ye may say 
the jail has done for Tim, he’s got a feelin’ for 
yer Reverence such as few of his age is likely 
to come into.” 


268 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

Some might not have been pleased with this 
remark, but Father Bernard was. He knew his 
young people, so he didn’t expect much from 
them, and he glowed with pleasure at the as- 
surance that he had touched Tim’s heart. 

‘‘It’s through Lena that I have reached Tim,” 
he said simply. 

Mrs. Halligan’s face hardened. “Sure, that’s 
me heaviest trouble; to have Tim settin’ Lena 
Schramin above his mother. If she were a nice- 
mannered girl I could understand it, for the ways 
of youth is unfeelin’ at the best. But Lena ! 
Ah, wirra!” Mrs. Halligan exclaimed despair- 
ingly. 

“There’s much that’s good in Lena,” the priest 
declared. 

Mrs. Halligan looked at him. If it had not been 
Father Bernard she would have had her sus- 
picions. 

“’Tis because of yer own spiritual gifts ye can 
see it,” she said, as though speaking to herself. 

“The main point is that it’s there to be seen,” 
he replied. 

“No woman will ever get a look upon it,” 
Mrs. Halligan said with such an inflexible manner 
that Father Bernard thought it best not to argue 
the matter further. There was another point of 
view from which Lena might be considered, and 
269 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

he felt that Mrs. Halligan could be led to it with 
greater ease. 

‘‘At least, you’ll have to admit she has in- 
fluence over Tim,” he said. 

“Sure, and that’s what I’ve got against her as 
a mother.” 

“We can’t help the working of one nature 
upon another, Mrs. Halligan.” 

She sighed. “If any mother ever struggled 
with a boy I done it with Tim ! And as for Lena 
Schramin, I’ve set her before him as plain as me 
tongue can speak.” 

“That’s no use — no use !” the priest exclaimed. 

“If them ain’t Tim’s own words!” she cried. 
’“Ain’t it strange how there’s somethin’ in the 
mind of a man that brings ’em all around to the 
same thoughts, even if it’s yer Reverence, or 
nothin’ but me own poor lad ?” 

Father Bernard felt very humble for the mo- 
ment. He realized that it was only respect for 
his office that had veiled the contempt in Mrs. 
Halligan’s tone. 

“The point is that Tim will go to the bad if 
she doesn’t marry him,” the priest said, so sol- 
emnly that the color ebbed from Mrs. Halligan’s 
florid face. 

“Can’t the church do nothin’ for him, father? 
Think of all me prayers by night and day!” 

270 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

“I believe that Lena is the answer to them,” 
he told her. 

“Oh, wirra! I would have saved me breath 
if I had known it was cornin’ to this 1” she cried. 

He shook his head. “Who are you to say how 
the answer shall be given If Tim can gain 
strength through Lena you should be grateful 
to her for the help she can give him.” 

“Ah, she’s too mean ! She’ll never marry me 
poor Tim.” 

“I think she will,” said the father. 

“And a fine, strappin’ husband she’ll be get- 
tin’,” Mrs. Halligan declared. “Tim is just like 
his father when he were the same age. Poor 
Tim!” she finished with a sigh. 

“Your life has not been a very easy one, Mrs. 
Halligan.” 

“No, yer Reverence.” 

“Then say a prayer for Lena when you men- 
tion Tim.” 

“Sure, an’ I will,” she answered. “Ah, ye 
can talk feelin’ into a heart of stone, father. But 
I’ll say that Lena has got a way of controllin’ 
Tim that don’t call for much assistance from 
prayer.” 

“She knows how,” the priest admitted. 

“Ay, she knows how, which is more than I 
done when I started out with me old man.” 

271 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

‘‘I believe it’s the right thing for them both,” 
said the priest. 

‘'Ye couldn’t keep them from it if it was the 
wrong!” Mrs. Halligan exclaimed. “If only 
the Eyetalian don’t die, and Tim can get out of 
jail now, I’ll be willin’ for providence to take its 
course,” she said resignedly. 

“I’ve just been to the hospital,” Father Ber- 
nard told her. 

“And ain’t he come around yet?” 

The father looked grave. “He’s still low.” 

“Sure, if he’s goin’ to die, I can stand anything 
but waitin’ for it,” she said, and apprehension 
sounded in her voice. 

There must have been a good deal of the 
stamina of his ancestors in Francisco, for he 
didn’t die after all, in spite of Harry Veinig’s 
statement as to the softness of Italians. Rumor 
reached him upon his return to consciousness, 
as to the many inquiries that had been made 
about him, and it is not surprising that he should 
have been somewhat misled by so much solicitude. 
The idea that Lena herself had called daily to 
get news of his condition, was peculiarly pleasing 
to him, for, as the remembrance of his encounter 
with Tim came back to him, he began to feel 
much humiliated that he should have suffered 
so unqualified a defeat in the presence of his 
272 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

inamorata. It was gratifying, therefore, to 
know that he still held a place in her esteem at 
least. What else could her frequent visits of in- 
quiry lead him to suppose ? 

Poor Francisco ! There was a shock in store 
for him, and he got it as soon as he was dismissed 
from the hospital. He carried his cracked and 
still bandaged skull at once to Columbus Avenue, 
and took the car down to Zukerman’s bakery and^ 
lunch-room. The rush hour had not yet arrived, 
and Lena, forgetful of his very existence now, was 
seated at one of the tables resting for a minute, 
and thinking about what she would say to Tim 
when he got out of jail, and what Tim would 
say to her, for he was coming home next day, 
in consideration of Francisco’s recovery. 

To be sure, there was a fine to be paid, but 
Harry Veinig had made his father lend money 
for that, and George Wagner had lent some, too, 
so that altogether Tim would have to stagger 
under a good many trunks before he would be 
able to meet his obligations. But, at least, he was 
to be free, and that fact filled Lena’s horizon for 
the moment. 

She scarcely knew Francisco when he came in. 
The glass door was shut, for the October air 
was cool, and the Italian opened it with diffi- 
culty. He stood and looked about him at first, 

273 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

and then, seeing Lena, he went over to her 
smiling. 

‘‘Why, there’s something left of you, after all, 
ain’t there?” she exclaimed. 

Francisco didn’t know how to reply to this. 
It struck him rather unpleasantly, but he put 
its peculiarity down to the English language and 
passed it over. 

“You glad to seea me?” he asked confidently. 

“You bet,” said Lena with an emphasis that 
was disconcerting. 

“Say, wha’s da matter?” he asked, feeling 
suddenly that something was wrong. 

“Nothin’ ain’t the matter. I can’t get used 
to you with them bandages tied round your 
head — that’s all.” 

“Thesa ees not to las’ long,” he replied, re- 
gretting that his personal appearance could no 
longer command admiration. 

“Oh, yes, you’ll be all right again pretty soon,” 
she said patronizingly. Francisco’s face clouded. 
“For why you come to aska when I geta well 
to da hospital, if you don’ lika me no more?” 

“I like you,” said Lena. 

“Oh, yes, you lika me!” he exclaimed scorn- 
fully. “Say, where ees that fellow ?” 

“Who? Donnelly?” 

“Donnelly! No, da one that knocks me.” 

274 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

‘‘He’s in jail,” said Lena. 

Francisco smiled. “Tha’s right. Good for 
heem ! ” 

“Fm sorry he knocked you,” said Lena. 

“Oh, I tella you, he betta knocka me no 
more !” 

She laughed. “He’s been in jail ever since.” 

“Good for heem!” Francisco exclaimed again 
with considerable satisfaction. “Then why are 
you deefferent to me?” 

She didn’t answer this. 

“Say, I know you come to da hospital when 
I was seek,” he said, leaning toward her with 
sudden faith in his fortunes. 

“That must have been your other girl,” said 
Lena. 

This was a new idea to him; not entirely a 
pleasant one, and she saw that she had struck 
home. 

“You thought she didn’t know where you 
was,” Lena said. 

He sighed deeply. “I have taka her maybe 
two time to da show, tha’s all,” he declared. 

“You know you told her all sorts of things,” 
she reminded him. 

“Not lika I tell you,” he answered at once, 
and Lena believed him. 

She didn’t want Francisco hanging around, 
275 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

however, when Tim came back, so she said: 
“That girl will take you in the courts if you 
don’t look out.” 

“Da girl can do that in America?” 

“Sure,” said Lena. 

Francisco was impressed, but in a moment 
his old ardor returned to him. 

“I don’ care what she do if you marry me!” 
he exclaimed with an impetuous movement. 

“You must be crazy,” said Lena coldly. “I 
don’t want a breach of promise suit cornin’ up 
about the man I marry. Besides, there’s Mr. 
Donnelly,” she added. 

“It ees for da first time I hear of Meester 
Donnelly to-day,” he asserted with some spirit. 

“He’s the man my father has picked out for 
me to marry,” said Lena meekly. 

“Oh, your father peek heem!” The author- 
ity was one that Francisco entirely respected, 
yet he couldn’t give up all hope of Lena ? “Say, 
suppose why don’ you not to obey your father ?” 
he suggested. 

Lena shook her head. “He’s an awful hard 
man.” 

Francisco didn’t doubt it, and yet he was very 
conscious of a change in Lena. “You are not 
treata me right,” he said, a sense of his wrongs 
playing havoc with his weakened nerves. It 
276 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

was hard to adjust himself to these new condi- 
tions, to realize that his star, so lustrous in its 
ascendancy, had gone down with his own fall 
before Tim’s crashing blow. He stood looking 
at Lena uncertainly, hesitating to accept defeat, 
yet reading finality in her face, and more plainly 
in her manner, when, fortunately for his feelings, 
Mrs. Zukerman came up from her daily inspection 
of the ovens below stairs. She broke into smiles 
at sight of Francisco, and he beamed gratefully 
in return. There was a personal note in her 
welcome that he missed in Lena’s. 

“You’ll be just as good-lookin’ as you was 
before, already, when you get the bandages off 
your head,” she said, looking him over anx- 
iously. 

“You theenka so.^” he asked, and raised his 
eyes to the mirror that swung opposite the glass 
case. 

“Lena, why don’t you get him a cup of choc’- 
late?” she demanded hospitably. 

He shook his head. “I don’ feel lika to eat.” 

Mrs. Zukerman selected a small meringue, it 
might have been called a pocket edition. “See 
that, already.?” she asked, holding it up. 

“Eet ees gran’! For me?” he exclaimed, as 
she put it into his hand. “Ah, but you have da 
kinda heart 1 You lika da poor Italian.. Eef 
277 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

I had come only to New Yorka some year ago, 
that would be sometheeng, now, eh 

Mrs. Zukerman sighed. Francisco leaned 
against the counter, and took one luscious bite 
of the meringue. It lightened his gloom, but 
only while it lasted; the pall soon settled down 
upon him again. ‘‘Why can you nota learn some 
kindness from your good boss?’’ he asked sadly 
of Lena. 

“Them pies ain’t mine to give away,” she 
answered airily. 

“Eet ees nota da pie I want!” he exclaimed, 
and stood above her in no uncertainty as to his 
wishes. 

Mrs. Zukerman pretended to busy herself be- 
hind the counter, but she kept her ears open for 
all that, and now and again she managed to catch 
a glimpse of the two young people across the 
room. 

Francisco was meeting the first chilling wind 
that his ardent temperament had ever encoun- 
tered. 

‘‘Eef you don’ lika me, why don’ you say so 
before I get my head break?” he demanded. 

“Maybe if you hadn’t got it broke, I would 
have liked you the best of all,” Lena replied with 
some truth, for Tim’s superior strength and 
prowess were part of his charm for her. 

278 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

Francisco’s anger flamed out at this, as well 
it might. ‘‘Say, you notheeng but what you 
call eet yourself — a flirt!’’ he exclaimed. 

She surveyed him from beneath her lashes. 
‘‘Is that what you think about me?” 

“No 1” he cried, and, encouraged by the gentle- 
ness of her tone, he pulled out a chair and sat 
opposite to her, leaning across the table. He 
was a beautiful young creature, in spite of the 
bandage around his head, but Lena turned away 
from the mellow gaze of his eyes. Her coldness 
killed his rising hopes. 

“You are deefferent, you have change,” he 
complained. 

She had changed, for larger emotions had 
filled her, and now, looking into Francisco’s eyes 
she recognized the sincerity of what she saw. 

“You’ve just been foolin’,” she said, trying 
to spare his feelings. 

“No. I ain’t foolin’,” he answered. 

At this point Mrs. Zukerman, fired by a sudden 
idea, rose from behind the counter. “How would 
you like to be a baker, already ? One of the boys 
down-stairs is got another job.” 

“Buta I don’ know how,” Francisco said, 
perceiving the probable joys of such a position. 

“They’ll teach you if I tell ’em,” Mrs. Zuker- 
man remarked. 


279 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

‘‘Take him and you’ll lose me!” Lena cried 
out. She was determined not to give Tim further 
cause of complaint, and she knew the charm of 
Francisco’s style. 

“For why, Lena?” Mrs. Zukerman asked in 
evident disappointment. 

“What maka you so unkind ? Sometheeng is 
turna you against me,” he declared. “Say, eef 
eet was that fellow Teem I’d smasha hees head.” 

Lena repressed the smile that the remark 
called forth. “Tim’s in jail, and don’t you forget 
it,” she reminded him. 

Francisco was not apt to forget it. The knowl- 
edge warmed his heart as he went upon his way. 
It seemed to him a peculiarly dreary way, far 
from the flowered path that he had fancied him- 
self treading, when, from his cot in the hospital, 
he had contemplated his re-entrance into society. 
He scarcely knew what to do with himself, for 
his gang had dispersed, and the big hole that he 
had been digging was now being rapidly filled 
again with concrete and stone. There was, in- 
deed, little left for Francisco but to make a new 
beginning, so he took a cross-town car at Eighty- 
Sixth Street and returned to Little Italy, carrying 
with him the garnered wisdom of a summer. 

Lena reflected with pride upon the art with 
which she had deceived him, for her standards 
280 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

were not exemplary. She could scarcely wait 
for an opportunity of telling Annie about their in- 
terview. Annie, however, was sincerely shocked 
at the revelation of Lena’s untruthfulness. 

“You know you are not going to marry Don- 
nelly!” she exclaimed. 

“That’s where I was smart — I never said I 
was.” 

“But Francisco thinks you are.” 

“Can I help what he thinks ? Don’t you know 
if he had the idea that I was thinkin’ about Tim, 
he’d swear out a warrant or somethin’ of the 
kind on him just as soon as he got out of jail ? 
You can’t be too particular about always speakin’ 
the truth. I suppose Oscar Hauser thinks your 
own conduct was sort of deceivin’,” Lena said 
adroitly. 

“I never deceived Oscar,” Annie declared. 

“You treated him bad all right,” said Lena. 

Oscar himself secretly shared her opinion. 

“It ain’t that I’m thinkin’ of the things I used 
to bring you, Annie,” he said sadly one evening. 

“Why, no, you couldn’t be, for you’ll remem- 
ber I always told you they could make no differ- 
ence,” said Annie with a virtuous air. 

“I know,” said Oscar. “But I couldn’t help 
hopin’ that they might soften your feelin’s toward 
me in time.” 


281 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

‘‘If I had realized you felt that way, I would 
never have taken them,” Annie declared. 

“You were welcome to ’em,” Oscar assured 
her; “only sometimes it does seem hard that if 
you was thinkin’ of matrimony at all, you couldn’t 
have been satisfied with me, after all my tryin’ 
to please you.” 

“You ought not to worry about that, for you 
didn’t mind it so much while you thought I was 
intending to enter the church,” she argued. 

“That was different.” 

“You used to say it was an awful thing for me 
to go into the convent.” 

“You’re speakin’ the truth,” he agreed. “But 
if I could see anything so grand in your intended 
I could understand the way you’re actin’.” 

“You don’t know him,” said Annie. 

“And I don’t want to know him,” he replied, 
with spirit not customary with him. 

“Please don’t feel that way toward him, Oscar, 
for you’ve been such a good friend to me,” she 
begged. 

Oscar did not respond for some time; indeed, 
conversation with him was usually well inter- 
larded with pauses. “How long have you known 
him.^” he asked at last with seeming irrelevance. 

“Not very long,” Annie admitted. 

Again silence fell while Oscar formulated an- 
other idea. 


282 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

“I s’pose he’s given you a great many hand- 
some things/’ 

Annie blushed, for at that time George had 
made her no presents. Her reply was astound- 
ing to Oscar and moved him to immediate speech. 

“Don’t he get a rebate on things in the store ?” 

“I don’t know,” she said. 

He meditated upon these revelations for some 
time, but they threw little light upon his own 
failure. 

“ It seems like two years servin’ ought to count 
for more than a few weeks,” he said at length. 

“Oh, it’s not a matter of time,” Annie de- 
clared. 

“It seems like it ought to be,” he replied. 

“Was it so with you, Oscar?” she couldn’t 
refrain from asking. 

“No,” he admitted slowly. “I taken to you 
the first time I saw you.” 

“But I’ve never given you any presents, 
Oscar.” 

“No,” said Oscar again. Then he stopped and 
looked long at Annie, but asked her no more 
questions, and after a while he rose and stood by 
her chair, as impassive as ever, except for a gentle 
melancholy that hung upon his honest face. 

“I hope you’ll be happy, Annie,” he said simply. 

“Thank you, Oscar,” she answered, and some 
instinct made her slip her hand into his. He 
283 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

didn’t misunderstand her sympathy, though he 
was but the clerk in the delicatessen, and a very- 
dull young man at that. 

“Annie should have felt proud to get him,*’ 
Mrs. Zukerman declared, for Oscar’s Teutonic 
charms had always appealed to her strongly. 

“Annie is not one to take pride in such things,” 
Mrs. Halligan retorted, “though I will say that 
Oscar is a nice-mannered young man, and bein’ 
a German is not his fault.” 

Mrs. Zukerman bridled at that. “Mrs. Hal- 
ligan if you can’t say nothin’ pleasant about the 
Germans, for why can’t you keep still, already ?” 
she asked. 

“I were never one to carry down me thoughts 
to give inflammation to me insides,” Mrs. Halligan 
replied. “But as for Annie, her mind was so set 
on the church, that it took a young man out of 
the common to make her change it.” 

“I was in the drug-store to look at Wagner 
last night, already,” Mrs. Zukerman said dryly. 

This was a trifle disconcerting. “Well, perhaps, 
he’s nothin’ much to look at, but he’s a grand 
young man, as ye’d find out if ye was acquainted 
with him,” Mrs. Halligan asserted. 

“How long is Annie acquainted with him.?” 

“Not so long. It’s only a short while he is in 
the drug-store.” 


284 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

“And ten years she is preparin’ for the church, 
already,” the German lady remarked. 

“And wasn’t ye tellin’ me daily yerself I 
shouldn’t be stranglin’ the natural instincts of 
a young girl by buryin’ her alive in the con- 
vent ?” 

“You said she had a callin’,” Mrs. Zukerman 
replied. 

“Them was me words, and I’ll not be inter- 
ferin’ now she has another.” 

“She has good bearin’,” said the bake-shop 
lady, at which Mrs. Halligan rose to a spirited 
justification of Annie’s conduct. 

“And she’d be a strange girl was she not bear- 
in’ the call of George Wagner, for it’s a good 
position in life he’s offerin’ her, besides the senti- 
ments of his heart.” 

“It’s what I’m sayin’ all these years,” Mrs. 
Zukerman declared. 

“And what might that be.^” 

“Just that if Annie was to get a chance of 
marryin’ to her likin’ the convent would never 
see her already yet.” 

“Ye’re a sacrilegious, back-bitin’ woman, and 
I’ll not listen to ye longer!” cried Mrs. Halligan, 
and she left the store, her dignity somewhat 
ruffled by the knowledge that events seemed to 
justify Mrs. Zukerman’s prophecy. 

285 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

It was hard to give up her cherished plans for 
her daughter, yet George Wagner had won a 
place in her affections by the assistance he had 
given to Tim, and she was determined to be 
loyal to her prospective son-in-law. Therefore 
the air of satisfaction which she saw fit to main- 
tain at the sudden turn of affairs, grew in time 
to be quite habitual to her, and her connection 
with George became a source of unalloyed pride. 

Annie was glad that it w^as so. ‘‘It seems as 
though I don’t deserve to have everybody so 
kind when I’ve broken my promise to the church,” 
she said one evening. 

George felt that he must be stern with her. 
“I wish you’d remember that you never made 
a promise to the church !” he exclaimed. 

“It’s all the same, to make it, or to say you’re 
going to make it,” she asserted. 

He was silent for a time, then he said slowly: 
“If you feel that way, maybe you’d be happier 
if you kept it, after all.” 

She glanced at him quickly, but, though her 
lips trembled, she said nothing. 

He didn’t speak either, and in the silence, a 
customer came in for a bottle of ammonia. George 
came very near giving him arsenic instead, and 
when the man had gone Annie rose and said 
good night. 


286 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

“ril think over what youVe said,” she told 
him with a dignity that was not assumed. 

George’s heart stood still. He watched her 
go out of the store still in that dreadful silence 
and then, as she closed the door, he bounded 
after her. He overtook her in her own hall- 
way. What if the whole drug-store were carried 
away! He must talk to Annie that night. 

She turned as he entered behind her. The 
hall was very narrow and the dim taper on high 
gave but faint illumination. By it, neverthe- 
less, each saw a stronger side of the other’s 
nature. 

‘H didn’t mean that, Annie!” he cried. 

‘‘What did you mean?” 

He didn’t know how to tell her. “I can’t 
have you always regretting that you took me.” 

She hestitated. “I can’t regret it. But — 

but if you want to break olF ” 

His look dominated hers in a way that made 
her heart beat very hard. “You know that I 
don’t want to,” he said, and his tone needed no 
exaggeration to enforce its meaning. “I want 
you to be free, though, if you think you are 
doing wrong in marrying me,” he said after a 
pause. 

The great search-light of truth seemed to be 
playing about the dark little hall. 

287 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

‘^You’ll have to tell me to-night; I can’t wait 
until to-morrow,” he said at last, his voice very 
gentle, though very firm. 

‘‘I don’t think it’s wrong,” Annie murmured 
and raised her eyes shyly to his. 

In an instant his arms were around her. ‘‘I 
can’t let there be anything between us, Annie!” 
he cried. 

‘‘I ought not to have worried you with my 
thoughts,” she told him. 

“No, I was the one. I ought to have under- 
stood better how you felt about the church,” 
he declared with generosity equally as ready. 

It was very satisfying, that clearer vision at- 
tained in the stuffy little passage. It lasted 
some time, though, and Mrs. Halligan turned in- 
quiringly as Annie entered the flat up-stairs. 

“George and yerself must have had a quarrel 
and made it up, ye taken so long about it!” 
she exclaimed. 

Annie blushed, and wondered how she could 
have hit upon the facts so accurately. Then, 
so does love quicken the sympathy and the un- 
derstanding, it occurred to her quite startlingly 
that her mother had probably had considerable 
experience of life. “Some quarrels make you re- 
spect a man more. Don’t they, mother ?” she said. 

“Sure, if he’s a fine, powerful feller,” Mrs. 
288 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

Halligan replied absently, for the return of Tim 
was occupying her mind to the exclusion of all 
other subjects. 

It was in the morning that Tim regained his 
freedom — eight o’clock of a cool, bright day. 
Never had the air seemed to him so invigorating, 
never had the hum of traffic sounded sweeter in his 
ears. Even the unlovely neighborhood in which 
he emerged was touched with a charm not its 
own. He stood still for a moment, and then he 
saw Harry Veinig crossing the street as fast as 
his spindling legs could carry him. 

‘H couldn’t get here any sooner,” said Harry, 
his face all aglow with delight. 

Tim had not known how much he wanted to 
see the little fellow. “Looks to me like you’re 
growin’,” he said, gripping the thin hand in his 
big one. 

Harry shook his head. “I ain’t never goin’ to 
be much bigger.” 

“Bigness ain’t nothin’. It can get you into a 
heap of trouble,” said Tim, with a philosophy 
bred of much meditation. 

“What’s the news.?” he asked as they started 
off together. 

“The Allies’ line is holdin’,” Harry announced. 

“I mean the news on the block.” 

“They’ve got a new front door in the confec- 
289 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

tionery, and there’s some sort of movin’ figures in 
the drug-store window,” said Harry. 

Tim would have found even these details inter- 
esting had there not been another theme in which 
his thoughts were absorbed. ‘‘Seen Lena?” he 
asked. 

“Yes, I seen her yesterday,” Harry answered 
shortly, and added with some warmth: ‘‘She’s 
glad you’re cornin’ back, but she ain’t no gladder 
than what I am.” 

“Say, it’s good for me you ain’t a girl, kid!” 
Tim exclaimed laughing. 

“I wouldn’t be a girl,” said Harry, and busied 
himself untying the dime in his handkerchief. 
“I’m goin’ to pay on the car,” he declared. 

“Why, you’re doin’ things up in style. Ain’t 
you ?” Tim remarked. 

“I been savin’ it,” said Harry, surveying his 
money with satisfaction. 

He got its full value in paying for Tim, and it 
was not until the excitement of the novel experi- 
ence had subsided that he could talk again. Then 
he produced the one piece of information which 
he felt sure would command Tim’s attention: 

“Old Schramin and Donnelly’s goin’ into part- 
ners.” 

“What are you givin’ us?” Tim exclaimed in 
astonishment. 


290 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

^‘Donnelly says it’s because he’s goin’ to marry 
Lena,” Harry volunteered further, looking straight 
ahead of him, yet managing to note quite well the 
eflPect of his remark. 

Tim’s face flamed with temper, and then al- 
most as suddenly it grew anxious. Perhaps, 
after all, she was going to marry Donnelly. Per- 
haps she had not really meant what she said that 
morning in the jail. He turned away from Harry 
and looked toward the other end of the car. 

The little boy’s glance, however, was keen and 
quick, and he saw, without seeming to do so. 
‘^Everybody’s laughin’ at him ’cause they know 
Lena ain’t got no use for him, and he’s just foolin’ 
hisself,” he said. 

Tim remembered what Lena had told him 
about Donnelly, and her father’s wish for their 
marriage and, yet, he remembered also the visit 
she had paid to him after his arrest. It was 
foolish to think she had not meant every word 
she had said, so he accepted Harry’s reassurance 
confidently. He knew old Schramin, and he 
knew Lena’s respect for paternal authority, but, 
if her heart was true to him, he believed that such 
forces could not harm him. 

He had underestimated their power, however, 
for Lena would not now hear of marriage with- 
out her father’s consent. 

291 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

‘‘You didn’t talk that way when I was in jail,” 
said Tim. 

“That was different — ^you were in trouble 
then.” 

“What objection has your father got to me?” 

“The main one is that he’ll have to close up 
if he don’t get Donnelly to consolidate.” 

“So he’s goin’ to hand you over to Donnelly ?” 

Lena nodded. 

“He won’t do it while I’m livin’,” Tim re- 
marked forcefully, and there were no reservations 
in the glance that Lena lifted to his. 

Tim lost himself in its depths and forgot about 
Donnelly, and old Schramin, and everything else 
that still might keep them apart. 

“You’ll have to get my father’s consent,” said 
Lena. 

Tim protested, but she was stubbornly in- 
sistent. 

“Wouldn’t you marry me if he said no?” he 
asked. 

“I’d feel it was better if he was to say yes.” 

“You know I ain’t got a pull with your father, 
Lena,” he reminded her, but she was not to be 
turned from her point. 

“Why do you care what he says ? He ain’t 
been no sort of father to you.” 

“I can’t tell you why,” said Lena truthfully. 

292 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

Perhaps there was a superstitious dread of 
parental curses lurking in her mind, or, more 
likely, some half-defined acknowledgment of a 
father’s right of ownership that had come down 
to her from a submissive past. The coquetry 
had gone from her manner to Tim; he was in 
no doubt of her love for him, and yet she had 
set him a seemingly impossible task. 

Like Francisco, he was finding the world not 
an entirely happy place upon his return. He 
had thought that Lena would be his for the ask- 
ing, whereas here was a great barricade she had 
raised about herself. He saw that she meant 
what she said, and knew that he would have to 
find some way of surmounting the difficulty. 
Besides this trouble, his financial obligations were 
staring him in the face, one of them, at any rate. 

It confronted him in Veinig, as he unwittingly 
passed the cobbler’s shop. Veinig happened to 
look up, and, seeing Tim, beckoned to him vio- 
lently, so that, under the circumstances, there 
was nothing for the young man to do but to 
go in. 

‘‘And so you are back on your mother again,” 
Veinig said harshly. 

“I’m goin’ to get my old job to-morrow,” 
Tim replied, keeping well in mind the fact that 
Veinig had lent money to pay his fine. “I’m 

293 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

much obliged to you for what you did for me/’ 
he managed to say. 

"‘I didn’t do it for you/’ Veinig remarked, 
pulling out his thread with a jerk. 

“Well, then, I ain’t obliged!” Tim exclaimed 
in relief. 

“Do you think I care how long you stay in 
jail ? If it wasn’t for Harry you could live there,” 
Veinig said. Nobody knew how it hurt him to 
take out any of the money he had put in bank. 

“Is that what you called me in here to say?” 
Tim asked angrily. 

“That, and to ask you about your plans for 
payin’ back.” 

“You’d better believe I’ll be as quick to pay 
it as I can,” Tim replied. 

“And how about the six per cent?” 

“What’s that?” Harry’s shrill voice inquired 
suddenly. He had been listening just behind 
the partition that cut off the inner room, and he 
now appeared in the doorway with an anxious 
expression on his face. 

“Keep out of this,” his father commanded. 

Harry gave no heed to the command. “What’s 
a six per cent ?” he insisted. 

“Don’t worry about it, kid,” Tim advised in 
his usual indulgent tone. 

“Is it more money ?” Harry asked persistently. 

294 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

“It’s interest on the debt,” Veinig growled. 

“Is Tim got to pay it ?” Harry questioned fur- 
ther. 

“Why shouldn’t he pay it? I paid it when 
I borrowed money.” 

Tim scowled; the idea of interest staggered 
him. 

“Business is business,” said Veinig. 

Harry looked unhappy. “You didn’t say 
nothin’ about six per cent when you gave the 
money to me,” he said shrewdly. 

“What was the use? You couldn’t have un- 
derstood it,” 

“Tim didn’t know, then, when he took it.” 

Veinig was silenced. He mumbled something 
that neither of the others understood, as he 
hunted among the tools on the table at his side. 
Harry looked proudly at Tim, who seized the rope 
that the little fellow had flung him. 

“Sure, I don’t pay no interest I didn’t settle 
on payin’ beforehand. I’ll come in here every 
Saturday night, and you won’t be no gladder 
than me when we’re square,” he declared, and 
started out. 

“Where you goin’?” Harry asked with the 
evident hope that he might be bidden to accom- 
pany his friend. 

Veinig looked up suddenly, jealous of Tim’s 
295 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

influence over his son. ‘‘I need you this morn- 
ing,” he remarked to Harry. 

The boy’s face fell, and Tim said to him with 
a contemptuous glance at Veinig: ‘‘See you 
later, guv’nor.” 

Harry sat disconsolately on the bench, and 
Veinig went on working in silence for some time 
after Tim had gone out. Pleasant thoughts were 
evidently running through the cobbler’s brain, 
for his face lost its usual unprepossessing expres- 
sion as he worked. At last he glanced up and his 
eyes rested proudly on Harry. 

“I’m goin’ to make a lawyer of you,” he an- 
nounced. 

“I don’t want to be it,” Harry answered in a 
lifeless tone. 

“Can’t you get that trunk-carryin’ business 
out of your head Veinig demanded. 

“Tim says I’ll maybe grow up strong,” Harry 
said, for Tim’s return had put new hope into 
him as to his future. 

The cobbler said nothing, but he went back to 
his work. 

“Tim says — ” Harry began again. 

“Go on and find Tim,” the cobbler cried out 
in a nervous tone. 

Harry darted into the street as the permission 
was given. He knew where to find his friend. 

296 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

Life fell into its old rut for Tim when he got 
to work again next day, but the clouds were still 
upon his horizon. 

‘‘Fd like dog-gone well to know how to get 
round old Schramin,’’ he remarked that evening 
to George Wagner in the drug-store. 

Wagner smiled mysteriously. ‘^How about 
making Donnelly close up I” he asked. 

‘‘Not him; he looks like he's doin' fine.” 

George stroked the cat and still smiled. “Fve 
been saving up something to tell you, Tim,” he 
said. “Donnelly came in here the other night 
for the first time and I saw him.” He stopped. 

“Well, what did you make out of him ?” 

George didn't answer the question; instead, 
he asked another. “Do you remember that 
story I told you about the fellow who came to 
my town and called himself the agent for a show ?” 

Tim looked at him incredulously. “You don't 
mean ” 

“Yes, I do. It was Donnelly; I'd know him 
anywhere.” 

“Gee, but that's a pretty tale!” the other 
exclaimed joyfully. 

“It's pretty enough to ruin his trade,” said 
George. 

“Say, you're all right. You're goin' to let 
me tell it, ain't you ? ” 


297 


Father Bernard’s Parish 


‘*Do what you like with it; it’s more to you 
than it is to me.” 

*^ril not sleep until I see him,” said Tim. He 
stopped, as he started out, and added reassuringly: 
‘‘You mustn’t think I’m goin’ to get married 
until I’ve paid you back your money, but if you 
don’t mind I’m goin’ to pay old Veinig first. 
He’s been after me already for it.” 

“Pay it when you can,” said George easily. 

Tim found himself unable to express his grati- 
tude. ‘‘Say, where’d I be if Annie had thrown 
you over for the convent he exclaimed. “You 
can swear to what you told me about Donnelly 
I guess.” 

“If necessary,” said George. 

“You’ll see his finish, then, before next week.” 

As Tim hurried home Donnelly turned into the 
doorway just ahead of him. Tim gave the man 
time to establish himself in his room. Then he 
mounted the stairs, let himself into his mother’s 
apartment, and knocked at the door of the un- 
suspecting lodger. 

“Oh, it’s you, is it ?” said Donnelly as he spied 
Tim without. “What can I do for you?” 

Tim said nothing, but came in and closed the 
door. 

“You’ve got your nerve,” Donnelly remarked. 
He had taken olF his coat, but not his hat. 

298 


Father Bernard's Parish 

“Now see here, you needn’t ask a man who’s 
about to get married to lend you money,” he 
said warningly. 

“What makes you think you’re goin’ to get 
married?” Tim asked, seating himself upon the 
table. 

Donnelly grinned unpleasantly. “Lena Schra- 
min is the main one who gives me the idea.” 

“Does she?” said Tim. “Well, we won’t 
waste time talkin’ about it. Ever been to Hill- 
ville, Pennsylvania?” 

“May have passed through it, I guess.” 

“I guess so. Too hot for you to stay there.” 

Donnelly changed color. ‘‘If it’s all the same 
to you I’d just as soon discuss my travels with 
you in the morning. I haven’t recently spent a 
month in jail and I’d like to go to sleep.” 

“If you ain’t been in jail I guess it’s on account 
of some mistake, and, as for sleepin’, I don’t be- 
lieve you’ll do much of that to-night,” said Tim. 
“What I came here to say is, I been talkin’ to a 
feller that seen you in Hillville, and he knows 
what you did there, too.” 

There was an appreciable pause before Don- 
nelly spoke. “He must know more than I do, 
then,” he said, but his voice had in it a note of 
uneasiness. 

“No, he don’t know no more than you do,” 
299 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

Tim remarked dryly. ‘‘Say, that was a slick 
trick you pulled over on them country butchers. 
It’s the kind of thing your customers would take 
to. 

‘'How much are you trying to stick me for.^” 
the other asked. 

“Not a durned dollar,” Tim replied promptly. 

Donnelly looked at him through half-shut eyes. 
“Ain’t you got a fine to pay ?” 

“That’s all right, you ain’t goin’ to pay it.” 

“Rather have your friends come across with 
the money, eh ?” 

“Quit talkin’ about my friends,” said Tim, 
and Donnelly did not refer to them again. 

“Well, what are you goin’ to do about it?” 
Tim asked after a tense pause. 

“I wasn’t thinking of doing anything,” Don- 
nelly replied with an effort to appear indifferent. 

“How about closin’ the ‘Palace of Meats’ ?” 

“Closing your mouth!” the other cried in ex- 
citement. 

“It’ll be easier to close up the ‘Palace,’ ” Tim 
said. 

Measuring him accurately, the proprietor of 
the palace knew that he was right. “If I should 
decide to go, how can I tell that you won’t talk 
afterward and spread these lies about me all 
around New York?” he asked anxiously. 

300 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

“Fll give you a paper sayin’ me and my friend 
will keep quiet as soon as you give me one sayin’ 
you’re goin’ to pull out,” Tim promised. 

It was an odd bargain, but Tim was never 
more triumphant than when he laid Donnelly’s 
contract to depart before the eyes of the aston- 
ished Schramin. 

‘‘Say the word, and that’s yours,” he an- 
nounced. 

“What to say?” asked the older man. 

“Give me Lena.” 

“Sure,” said Schramin at once, and pocketed 
the paper, well content. It mattered little to 
him upon whom he bestowed Lena’s hand so 
long as his business was saved by the transac- 
tion. 

“I didn’t know you were so foxy,” Lena said 
to Tim as they went out together to the gayly 
lighted street that night. 

Tim smiled; he didn’t often receive special 
mention for shrewdness. He spoke little, yet 
Lena was well aware of his satisfaction. She 
felt it even in the possessive tenderness of his 
clasp upon her arm. 

It is no strange sight — a pair of lovers upon a 
city street — and, when they had left their own 
neighborhood, no one threw them even a glance. 
Yet, by common consent, they turned from the 
301 


Father Bernard’s Parish 

thoroughfare and sought again the pleasant 
resting-place upon the steps of Father Bernard’s 
church. 

‘‘It’s too cold to sit down,” Lena protested. 

“I’ll keep you from the wind,” said Tim, 
though he did not know those sweet old lines: 

‘'O, wert thou in the cauld blast 
On yonder lea, on yonder lea. 

My plaidie to the angry airt, 

Fd shelter thee, Fd shelter thee.” 

It was Father Bernard who thought of them. 
He hummed the air over to himself as he caught 
a glimpse in passing of the two on the church 
step. Something familiar about the figures ar- 
rested his attention, and he hesitated. Should 
he stop ? Lena and Tim did not observe him. 

“Not to-night,” thought the priest and went 
on. There was a grave and quiet pleasure in his 
face, and the old melody still ran through his 
head: 

“My plaidie to the angry airt, 

Fd shelter thee, Fd shelter thee.” 

He rumbled it out in a soft, sweet bass as he 
turned in at the parish house, looking forward 
to a sound night’s sleep after his evening walk. 


302 






r- 



/, ••>> . * ‘-b ^ o 

' >> <» ‘' "^ A y ] g ^ 0 i, K *" 

' ^ .# ^’'l! *. <?-, : ,0 


<> <^. 


■i'-' '\ 


‘S 

- V 1 8 ■'o ^ y 


.0^ c«^ ■'V ' aV .V.8 

^ y ^ ^ '>'^ A 1 





iU -^0^0^ 

^ % v> ^ ^ ^ 


a’^' - ^\ .<^»- /> - •>'- 

A V os 


’■° '/ 
* ' '” o'j-^ s'” f ~ ‘ 

' /» r 


C. y^> 

^ ^ 
i .^v - ^ 

o>'^.c“^“ .•/•^ ' ■•" „ 

‘ ' .si'^ s' 



"7 O 

‘■y <t ^ 

0^ ® 

.ss2"\° ‘ 

0 N 0 ^ » '' , 0^ 

r^ * \ V «r i', ^-v VI' _ V, 




% Vo 



^ o I -X * - 

4 > Y*^n '^* 8 l' V « 

^ - Y"^ ' o.'' 

'K( ^ 

V%Vvi 

-\\ ^ J5?7//Z>^ -f ^ V -N- i^Airryi-^ ^ 


'■ '’ <<■ 

^TT.-'A' %'»rro’\A' 


- 




wTFw 

'V. ^ 0 


> 

y 

^ <r 

"0 S 

V 

C' 

V 

. 




v - z -f^ 


■i°' S ' • ; ‘is”’ 


V' V 


•‘'‘ 'S'*^ „^<. A 











^ ^ ^ 4 o V 

V 1 fi '%. 0 ^ V '*' 0 N C "V , ^ 

-< '^0^ r « 

' ® 'P^ ^ c*. ^ 

<r Vi • i- 

^ 0 ‘' ■'O '* ^ 0 \\'^ rS^ B . A * '.O' 

»y ,0^ ''C'^ ’'*° v' »'“”'. v'lIrC 

rA". •'s^ .c:-> -esfeiia. • <\p ^v . * 


,'t <r/55^', / 




% / * 
I ^ .\^ '^- = 






0 4 


’ <. \ ' 8 ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ 0 N & ^ ' B « > '* <. V ' 8 ^ 






□ □D51b2t.HQ5 




